And the words dont come anymore.

I thought about it and I f**cked it up.
If I could write everyday it would be better.
I could brush this off as a mistake and look to tomorrow for my next tragic rambling,
or dance with a muse,
but I do this so seldom nowadays that I hardly have the right to call it a passion,
let alone a vocation.

At very least I'd like a holiday from being myself,
if I can escape the nights of boredom mixed with self pity it'd be alright.

When I'm left to my own devices they eat me alive.
Too much time to think leaves you with no more conclusions and so many more questions.
If I knew how to be spontaneous I would be.
If they could simply kill me,
just let me start over,
i'd be happy.

When I break this into paragraphs it will become art,
and if I'm wishing for my life's biography to read like fiction why am I so concerned about being depressed?
After all this proves that I've felt more.
I am multi dimensional, not single minded.
I am so single minded.
But I've felt so much more then the average.
I have a greater understanding of the world,
don't I?
If I don't then I'll have to convince myself that I have,
because there is no other way I could justify this miserable existence.

I hope there is someone out there who will read this and find it somewhat something.
I hope that this will one day be collected in a memoir that will outsell The Catcher in the Rye ,
and replace The Perks of Being A Wallflower as the writing teenagers turn to in hopes of defining themselves.
i doubt it.
too much will go unexplained on these pages .

Today I told a skottlin that our personalities should be presented as a mosaic of the things we are most passionate about,
and that life should be lived like a piece of art.

i like that.
really? really really? yeah.