I just found something I wrote two years ago:

People are fickle; what you might think is a very well phrased prose, other people wouldn't. People are interested in different things. Some people are narrow minded, like my friend who hates chavs with an abundance regardless of personally knowing one.

Words are the only medium on this brittle virtual medium we communicate through. I suppose it makes us do or die, I know what you mean by your standards. I'm like that with almost anything I do, I strive for perfection in an imperfect world, the truly perfect is in fact imperfect for we are perfectly human to want the perfect. Our existence is perfect but it is not the best, so all I do is aim for something impossible, something I am but can't admit, because others are better. Hyper competition, or full flourished paranoia?

Either way, if I spoke with the same depth of what I type I'd be content to lose my limbs. I speak with my muscles in the throat, not my head. However writing allows me time to think. But then as I sit here, listening to Steve Hackett at eleven at night, trying to maintain a messed up homeostasis, wondering what actually happened yesterday. I think what I type counts enough as an epiphany for me to start talking with thought.

What the hell happened to my ability to write?
I can not write like that anymore...

i feel the same way. i used to write very well, but it all went away.
» thaitanic on 2010-01-13 02:38:36

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