Okay, when reviewing some of my earlier writings I was slightly shocked at how many typos were in them- I mean blatantly obvious typos, god awful typos. These things aren’t even cute. When I read them I don’t think, “Aw, he’s trying.” Instead I think, “Aw, he has absolutely no fucking idea what he’s doing.” I feel I have come so far (ceiling fan kind of far) in the last two years- but definitely in the last two months. I’ve been writing a lot more, but more importantly I have been reading a lot more, and most of it is fairly challenging material. I’m talking about hardcore (insert snide coment here) sociological theory, political philosophy, and literature. To put it simply, “I’ve been reading ‘genius-work’.”

 I wish I could properly describe what I was I trying to do with words back then though. I guess I was trying to write out pure thoughts (whatever that means), but more likely I was writing language like I heard it spoken. Can someone say “bad idea”? No one should ever attempt to do this unless maybe they are a poet or a sage, and I’m a monk… So, I’ve painfully come to realize that writing isn’t the animal I thought it to be. Sadly, I don’t feel like I’ve come close to taming the damn thing yet. I’m trying. God knows, I’m trying. And yeah, one more thing, I think beginning to learn another language has drastically improved my writing capabilities. I never knew I knew so much about my own language until I actively engaged in learning the grammar system of German. I remember saying, “What the fuck is a “case”? Nominative, huh? Dative what? Of course, that adventure continues.    

She might as well be saying:

Can you stop that breathing- it's giving me a headache.

Why write? Why should I write it down? If some collective consciousness exists let it stay there, or forever wrapped in dead hair. Why record it, for the future, for my friends, for possible children? All things will be forgotten, and remembered again to be forgotten. I must be insane to have come this far, to have put down this many letters, now and before. I, this finite being, screaming to the sun for its mercies- drowned in its light, to the beginning and the end, I am nigh.