I find myself shifting endlessly from one quaint notion to
the next without regard to relation or cohesion, building fanciful castles of
myriad arguments, only to tear them down over and over again. A sort of a battle
of wits between an overbearing intellect and a seductive imagination. The truth
is that i do enjoy this part of me. The constant internal turmoil keeps me
distracted from what can only be called a rather threadbare reality.
Bare necessities and bad habits are my only requirements right now. Stories play themselves out in my head like on a large white screen in a dark smoke filled room. Colorful characters dubiously remnant of the best parts of me snake their way through twisted, distorted plots that play hopscotch across the blurry lines of fantasy and puzzling actualities.
Conversations with others seem like a distant and discarded idea. So I now choose to write in this obscure little page buried in a dark corner of the net so as to rid myself of the clutter in the attic of my being that prevents me from seeing the light... dim though it may be.
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