why not.

I wonder where all the time went.

I can remember being young and marveling at how slowly the days seemed to tick by. Now at nineteen they seem pass by slowly, untill the afternoon is gone and then suddenly the entire day has slipped past my fingers, faster than I could grab hold. When I realize that, the big red clock in my brain ticks down more numbers, numbers that won't reverse themselves. I don't get the time back. It really makes me panic sometimes. These thoughts creep up on me more and more as the months pass. I become preoccupied with death for a while on some nights, those nights that I realize that everything has to die, including those who share my blood. (my family, you nits)... then I remember this feeling I've had for a few years now, that I wasn't going to live past 25.

I don't know why I've always felt that way, and I'm sure the day my 26th birthday rolls around will be a stressful and reliving day, but until then, I wonder about it. I'm not psychic, even though I always joke about being so... but that doesn't mean that I don't know myself so much that part of me knows my own expiration date.

or uh... year.

What's my point?
Not knowing when I'm going to check out is horrible, (though one can imagine not nearly as horrible as knowing...) and sometimes the pointlessness of life catches up to me. The fact that human life in a sense has no purpose, nor does any life, and by that token, nothing has purpose. Which... kinda sounds like suicidal talk, but rest assured, I'm not going in that direction, folks.

Maybe people get lost in life trying to find a meaning. Maybe we're all here because the universe decided "why not"?

and another thing

...I'm very irritated by poetry.com. I entered their little contest, and now they keep telling me "oh yes this is a good poem, we're putting it in the book, and on this cd, and you've got the editor's choice award" except it all comes in the form of a pre-writted fill-in-the-blank letter, where all they have to do is toss in my first name and the title of my poem at the appropriate places.

I'm hurt by their lack of sincerity. The poem I sent the sucks, and now they want me to BUY THINGS FROM THEM. Like i'd pay 58 dollars to see my poem in a book. Oooo.