Though I have been active in pencil pushing, the actual sensation of pen to paper is humbling and lovely.
You know, I've always fucking hated writers. We are cliché and suave and dirty and pompous and oversexed and under appreciated and unpredictable and lost and long winded as hell.
Are we artists? Extensive, essentially diary, entries of complaints littered with metaphors and SAT vocabulary, is it relatable to Picasso in the slightest?
Probably. Do I give a shit if it is? Not a bit. This is where I begin to reflect on why the hell I even write this to begin with. Why did I waste my time explaining that mess when the point to prove doesn't exist?
Do you find me pretentious? Or think I am at least pretending? I bet it's my common colloquialism, or maybe my equally prevalent formality.
I can't find my identity. As much as I stare off into space with some dumb and longing look on my face, it's still in the void. So much is in the void. Remind me to tell you of it sometime...
The escape hatch in my brain is plugged I think. I feel just as trapped on paper as in there.
Major Tom to Ground Control...
SOS
YOU ARE READING
depreciation they claim
Kurgu Olmayana collection of thoughts, assessments, dreams, observations, lusts, loves, unthinkables, oddities, morbidity, and dark yet comforting humor and perspective.
