there's approximately a thousand of ideas, and stubs that dawn upon me within the tiny horizons of my head every single day.

things to write about moreorless.
to express.

did you know i stopped writing?
no, but really.
i used to be a writer.

right now, i'm a little cut, with serrated little edges with this light shed upon this. i mean, i shower and walk stairs in the dark, darkness is comfortable.
i stopped writing because my release, a previous passion, became too painful.

i found a frame. an empty photo frame.
but it still had a picture.

a wonderous, torturous joke, with a picture of me and someone a million years ago in it.
and you know what?
it wasn't funny.

hitting me, like curling unsaid malicious words, i pictured the image in my head, one i had once compressed to the back of my mind. until now.

where had i put the picture?
it was tangible, not just a digital little fucking thumbnail burnt onto a disk for no return.

in the book.
i say, the book because indeed, that book was a whole lot of life.
my life.
agingly withered and bent,
but life nonetheless.

words.
sweet, blissful, angry, bitter words fell out onto my lap.
poetry in prose, and prose in poetry.
escape to alcatraz.

a diary.
with stained pages, where one could trace over the craters of tears.
it is, i guess, where this story begins.
starting with entries untainted with the marked embarrassment.
the unfulfilled needs.

shit, i can't read it all.
i look at it, and it's like there are welts all over my skin.
oozing with all that isn't nice.

i am aching to run back into my room, where it has been carefully filed away,
to be unread,
but to read it,
and shudder with sobs,
rendering that stupid shitty little state of mind, or life
unreadable.

i don't want any one to see it, or to read it, but i still, somehow want them to know.
like those textbook dreams, where you're naked in front of an audience.
then again, wouldn't mind that.

what was i?
seriously.
i forget who i was sometimes. or who i am.

ten minutes later

i just succumbed. read a bit of the before.
before everything.
where life was worked out, and i was discovering it at the same time.

i stopped though, i knew what was coming.

thankful. i'm happy where i am right now.
i wish i could replay it all though.
not redo it, i would installed half a brain then.
but i want to see it
see me
feel me
it'd freaking intriguing
in the least.

over this time, i've changed in just about every way.
i've lost so many relationships.
motivation, passion.
still it's baffling though.
at the start my diary was structured, and then digressed into the book of eternal chaotic mess and ramble and poetry and pain and not to mention angst,
but there's this thread running through it, life, the stupid friggin book,
the so-called love.
and theodore, i understand your aversion to the word.

once again, no conclusion.
sometimes, i feel like the universal joke.
i was the universal joke for non-specific-monotheistic-deity's sake.

i'm glad i lost who i was,
stopped writing with all my sheltered literary dreams
because happiness outweighs it all.
now at least.
amazing unprecedented words, for only myself.
progressively undated, there are all these wonderful, blank, pink pages
free from scrawling black professions
that i will never
ever fill.