I think about life as if I am able to have an opinion. As if I experienced it all. I haven't . I have experienced little pain and lost small experiences. Life will carry on. I will carry on. At least that is what I'm told. I'm told that the more I write the better. Better for what? Better for the world, or me? Better for skill or mind? I suppose I won't find out till I write, right? Maybe. But for now, what do I do. I can wait in the line of time and wither with the rest of the writers wait for enough inspiration to carry us forward. Or I could take my chances, experience what I thought I never would. Write what I thought would never see the light. What I thought I would only tell myself while I waited for the darkness to overcome my eyes as I drift off into the abyss that is rest. When it's all said and done I can say, I did it. I can say I broke a paranoia that is blocking me from achieving something I'm too scared to see. In the end this won't matter. It will only be a diary of thoughts. Left behind on a small page on the internet. Left to wither. But at the very least I can say, that I wrote
It.
YOU ARE READING
Mental Thoughts
RandomThe title says it all unless your 12, which if you are what the heck are you doing reading the description. Anyway, this might get a bit, weird. I apologize if I begin to talk about me or dedicate an entire chapter to something similar to the though...
