Wednesday, December 18, 2013


I have no writing skills.  I only do it because it takes my mind off of other stupid things I think about that I probably don't need to think about or worry about. 

One of the things written, and subsequently destroyed, began with a line I still remember, because I think it, in a very brick-tongued kind of way, describes why I feel compelled to jab at the keyboard once in a while: "Not being adept at colorful description, I will abstain from witless meandering and attempt to communicate as intriguingly as possible the events I have seen or have been brought by some means to know.  This being said, I suppose grievous details should not be withheld for your sake as well as mine, for laying my confusion into the air my peace comes..."

That pretty well sums it up.  I do this mess to not think about what I'm thinking about at the time by thinking intensely and selfishly about the things I'm thinking about so I can write nearly incoherent sentences and paragraphs about what I'm thinking about.

I don't know why I don't let myself delete blog posts.  Maybe because they've already been released from their cages and it would be akin to lying should an attempt be made to try and pretend they never existed, these mangled words so carelessly stabbed from my fingertips.  Everything else gets burned or deleted.