� freed � 2002-04-21 � 2:23 p.m. �
I woke up with my mind running circles... a bit disoriented... a bit weak.
I am unsettled by separate entities... you know people call me so many things... Everyone in my family alone has another name for me... I answer to them all... but I am still only me. When people believe a separate side of them... a side with a different name exists... it's unsettling to me. What and why do they hide?
I guess I am too proud to ever say my mind isn't really mine.
Premediation unsettles me too... I don't think before I write (or speak for that matter... thught I can work the distance with taste most times). I learned from a man years ago that writing is an art only in it's free form. When he taught me, I hated that idea, but when maturity caught up to my mind, he was right.
Something thought out sounds just that way... sounds less like a conversation and more like a paper... it's boring, it's colourless... it doesn't speak... it sits. I can put my feet exactly where the writer put his. That's not art... it's feels dictated.
No one ever taught me to write... or draw... no one taught me how to be who I am not...
I was taught that whatever is... is and that's fine... I needn't call it something else to make it better... i needn't add to it with fanciness... I don't need to change it to feel appeased.
So when you read this and you think my spelling is bad... my grammar worse... Blah yeah... it is... and really I graduated a grammar queen... I just don't use it...
i don't editorialize for you, my friend... my opinons are soley for me.
And all you write... is boring, really.
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