It's ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Though it is seemingly pointless, there is a reason for the madness and I forgot that. Well, I forgot two things.
1. (Probably the most important) I write for myself. It shouldn't matter to me so much what other people think of the words I arrange on a screen. There are few exceptions, and even fewer I actually allow to circulate in my mind and distract me from my daily life (or absence of). The second I stopped for myself, was the moment I lost sight of what I really wanted. What's that you may ask? The purpose of my writing is to have an outlet for everything. Everything being anger, sadness, the happiness that I suppose gets me so high that a cease to be an acceptable individual of society (or seemingly so). I've trying to please other people and I'm done with it. I should be trying to please myself, which is technically impossible.
2. I forgot what two is. Maybe it'll come back to me before I finish writing. (It didn't return.)
The only kind of people I like are artists. Not particularly painters and writers and so on, but the people who care about the way a sentence is phrased and the words that are chosen. The kind of people who can look at something, understand it and know how to heighten the expression one is trying to convey. This is to me a factor in determining how intelligent a person is, for it is nice to know something, but it's another thing entirely to know how to use it. I don't think it's necessarily attention I want from the people I do, but the opportunity to learn something more about the people I've chosen to attach myself to. I shouldn't sit and beg for it, but rather take my time and enjoy the brief (or the elongated) moments I do get.
Anti Matter- N.E.R.D
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment