The deadly obsession bleeds through my fingers, staining the page with the alien shapes of insanity. words, words, words - so many words.... all trying to be heard, all silenced by our little cells of comfort.
"I am grateful that I have no serious needs for assistance..." So, I chime as I look upon the collected things. Yet, no solace from day to day; no heart to heart letters or calls. Just all these electrons, whose touch does not even register.
Dusted off the Pink Floyd - perhaps that's not the greatest listening for comfort, to be had. Oy.... I do not care to be happy. I just wish I could be "normal", by somebody's standards, at least. Even though I'm not completely, I crave being less alone... and I think many feel the same.
A piece of me thinks that visual art could be more effective, while my perfectionist tells me not to waste away hours creating pictures that would only get a shrug at best.
It can be painful not to be noticed. Alas, on the great Internet sea, it can be painful to be deceived, too.
I don't know "what I want", but what I want is more open communications. I love learning through the stories of others; some of my favorite friends are historians. "Can I trade you a model or two, to hear of some exploit, some fable, some tale that can help me live better, than I am with my other models?" (clumsy, perhaps)
I just want to write the caffeine out of my system? I just want to pull some secrets into the sunlight? Again, I do not know "what I want" - I just end up writing hither and thither in the hope that some words might collide and make a coherent thought.
I apologize if you did not care to read all of this. Perhaps I wrote it, just to avoid burdening you with a late night phone calll about the same....
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