Saturday, July 6, 2013

Sunday, July 7th, 2013; Completely crowded, completely unnecessary.

I was drinking near tombstones after a hot summer day, liquidating my problems, crying for lost strangers, spiting my secrets at souls that have vanished. There were better things to be doing with my evening, there are always better things to do than whatever I happen to be doing. So what of it? In the grandeur of the cemetery nothing spectacular happened, everything is dead. Most of the people who visit cemeteries are dead also. I suppose the only thing truly alive are the trees, whom intermingle their roots with the deceased.

I don't know why I am thinking of this, but I thought I'd type it out. I would like to write words that evoke thought, and hold meaning, but I always feel that I describe things in the wrong way, that I leave important details out. At least, details normal people might think of. Maybe the cracks aren't important, perhaps that is why I tend to ignore them. The words I shed always seem, so, almost plastic. Flimsy, easy to shatter. I suppose I should work on this. It is rare when I compose something that I find to be genuinely worth something.

I was telling stories to a new friend today; she told me that I should write a book. Writing some sort of novel, or memoir has always been intriguing to me, but a lot of things sound intriguing to me so I'm not sure if I will ever follow through on this little dream my heart has thought up. I have, though, decided to take up writing again. I don't think it does me much good. The second I start writing, I think more, and with thoughts, come truth. With truth comes my cynical habits. So maybe it isn't a very good thing, but it is also a very good thing. All the masters were assholes, what of it? I wish I could be the person I used to be. Two years ago, almost three. Cynical, aware, happy, writing, always writing. School & work are pieces of shit that ruin a soul.


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