I am the strangest person I know, being privy to all my thoughts and what not. Moody, manic, detached, maniacal. Sometimes I lose all control, but am not a wild man, nor am I violent. I speak my mind with almost no regard for consequence. I am not really afraid of what might happen if I spoke, but I am terrified of what might happen had I kept my mouth closed. Wisdom, no. Silence begets mistrust. I need more time. More time to write. More time to exorcise these friggin’ demons. I can’t stand it much longer. I don’t want to commit to a life that is not mine. I don’t want to work at something just a little left of meaningless. Frustrated, deep-rooted disjointedness…why do I fight myself? I am not the only one with battlescars. My conflict is not contained to myself, were it so, it would be nearly harmless. I impact others. I affect their ways. The ideology of the conflict is a muddled riddle of tongues. If you’re adventurous, you naturally learn to stetch the truth, decieve, lie – because the sedate among us can’t relate, so hate excitement, because the worriers among us can’t relate, so hate danger. It’s all deceiving. Everything from the ground upon which I stand to the stars at which I stare. Nothing is what I see. The space between the two is art. I don’t like art. The over glorification of one’s own art marks the beginning of the end for said one. This is sooth.