I keep trying to think of something useful and worthwhile to type; yet my mind keeps trying to paint me as the martyr who died on his pity pot.
I want to be with other people. Not so much to gather attention, but more to avoid being alone with myself. Or, maybe, I want to believe that I am not some invisible phantom, never thought upon when not in your face.
maybe i'm being melodramatic...
what i might consider great achievements, others consider to be ordinary facts of life...?
and i question my language - is it too harsh or critical? does it make complex work of simple subjects? am i shunned because i do not speak like they do...?
now, i'm stopping, hoping a nap may put me in better spirits.
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