The world really does seem like Wonderland

I know it's been a while
But fuck it anyway.

Poetry is born from death of some form, of any form, we know, we know.
I wrote poetry for the first time in weeks. Maybe months.
I'd forgotten that feeling of emptiness combined with solace.

Things change, but one thing remains the same: the fact that every now and again, you're reminded that you don't know everything, that even though you think you're okay with the fact you can't control everything, you're not. That you've got a ways to go. That you don't know exactly how to feel, or what you want to do, and even though you may feel like you're the only one struggling with it, you're not.

School is fine, even the part where I feel like a wandering, aimless puppy going from place to place, not really sure what kind of dog it wants to be when it grows up. It knows what it likes, but is distractable enough to fail to apply itself for an extended period of time on any one thing.

I'm having to learn how to train the puppy.

Everything looked so beautiful in the rain yesterday. Everything is more interesting. All the texture changes. Cars look like they have translucent chicken pox, buildings leak rain stains on their outsides, and people look like funny shaped seals in their raincoats and ponchos slicked with water.

It feels like I'm lacking inspiration for what I want to do, but perhaps I can find a certain spark of sorts in this Wonderland-esque sense of being completely turned upside down.