Ok. Focus now.

I haven't written a day log in a few days. I'm not sure why. My life has been like a recurrent concusion and I really need to get all these rampantly spinning thoughts out of my head before they find some undeserving target and spew all my hidden evil intentions upon him.

I'd like to dance with a fortune teller. They'd know how to lead and they could flow with their gypsy skirs and mysterious words. I want to realize the future. The future was presented to me yesterday in the most delightful way and I felt it was my future knew it was my future but I didn't grasp it like I should have. Why? i keep asking myself...

So I got home and a letter was sitting there which just threw my perfectly mapped-out existence into a violently flushing toilet and it caused me to go a little insane. Miniscule. And I couldn't stop myself from pondering over what I felt was my future what I knew was my future and seeing this new information and assimilating it into my head. Now it sits there and it rots and I don't know what to do with it. It keeps me up late at night writing inchorent beatnick ramblings and making various stir-fries.

I think I somehow ruined a friendship. The irony here is that I had already ruined it and was attempting to patch it up. Leave things broken, I should do that more often and listen to myself not to optimistic junkies high on their happy lives.

What kind of a writer am I? The more I plunge into Everything, the more abstract I become. I'm losing my one gift and talent. I doubt anyone understands .5 of what i write... But I so understand it. This is odd. I can feel so much more when I quit writing for others and only attempt to get the thoughts out. (This only applies to personal diatribes such as these. Some of my nodes aren't affected) But this is wrong. I need to reharness my creativity and find a balance which brings me to peace.

Be a writer. I should be a writer. They're right. Because I can write. But only when I feel like it and they've only seen so little of what I can do not even what I see or hear or what goes on within my head everyday. I'm so cursed in my blesings... it's always perfect when I never want it to be and perfection is least attainable when I try. And this is nothing...

I'd like to see some of this indecision getting blown up. I would pay for that honor, in fact.

Do you even read what I write or are you just sounding out
the syllables and making sense of my syntax?

Let me get this out and I will be at rest. And I won't plague you again with my paranoia and my restless thoughts which have never had a voice which could never be voiced.

Until now.

Mood-altering drugs keep my parents loving me and my wittiness brings me friends.     day ends.