I am annoyed. With myself. I started writing a piece. Discarded it. Came back to the idea, rewrote it. Discarded it. Again.

Sunday morning while cleaning up the kitchen before pancake breakfast, the best description came to me. The exact explanation I’ve been searching for came to mind. If I were profound enough it would have been an epiphany. You must understand there was much excitement in my mind.

Me pase la vida conformandoa esos que no tienen que ver conmigo;
Me pase la vida convenciendome, intentando ser alguien que ni siquiera yo logro entender;

English Translation

I spent my life satisfying those that have nothing to do with me.
I spent my life convincing myself, trying to be someone that even I can’t understand.

My last piece took three months to write.

When I get on a rant I can write for days.

It’s easy, I have a direction, if I’m lucky I have a template to respond to. When left on my own I go off on tangents, I go off topic too easily, I babble, my words become redundant. Even now I still nitpick my last piece. It should be more concise, succinct, expanded, delete, worded differently.

I’m out, camera in hand, trying to get a picture that wishes to stick to the camera. Trying to find something out there that is worth saving, just a glimmer of something. Something I want to save.

Or “How to Be Everything and Nothing”

What is it about human nature that makes us divide ourselves?

Out here, we are all turned on by tragedy, just so long as it’s not our own.

A hero isn’t a type of person; it’s a turn of events. Someone happens to have the right traits at the right place and time, and ends up saving the day. It obviously follows that the right traits tend to be less common ones, and so the atypical have a greater chance of occasionally being heroes. You’re only a hero at that time and place, however. I can no more save a world - let alone the world - than anyone else.

You will meet your greatest loves under the worst of circumstances.

I hurt in places I do not want to know. I’m cold and tin outside, with me rambling inside like an old nut. The rats of paper trash rustle around, down by the tracks where it smells like piss and smear, train debris lost in the pits. Leaves hunt through the street like rogue X-wings trying to dive-bomb the gutters, but next to the curbs, curious golden matchsticks have appeared.

Encourage your hedonistic tendencies.
Be sweet and nice to yourself.

No wallowing in your shortcomings – or mine; I’m good enough for myself, and I don’t want you on my back. Walk your own blisters.

It got late one night and I got to pondering; what would be the best job to go postal in. Where postal equals batshit crazy.

My phone’s dead. I keep picking up the horn to listen to the silence. Nothing to connect ‘cause the switch’s dead; I sing the song of the OFF function without STAND-BY because – just – No. Fuck content: How about this bit of societal flatline?

How come people still don’t look at the sky, wear shabby, bright colours or sing their daily commutes into being, instead opting to ruin their ears?