AmaniParadise :: Solitary Revelations & A Soliloquy

When I think about what to write, about myself at least I draw a neat little circle.  I can only define the blurred edges, traced and retraced unsure and shaky.  What's inside though is blank and I'm unable to fill that void it seems.  There must be something wrong with me to be so shut up and closed.  Me who thought I had so much to say.

But things aside, maybe collecting the odds and ends isn't such a bad way to start.  Perhaps someday I'll be able to gather all these and write a story that belongs to me.  Seems like though it's not such a waste then to put the things and people in my life into words.  There are a lot of things I don't want to forget even though it's difficult to write about.  I'm not as good as words as I used to be.  Maybe growing up muddles up the truth that the youth can so easily describe to you.  Like Picasso said, it's much harder for the adult to envision things and draw them as they were in childhood.  Growing up is a slow descent into a hell you wish to understand but find it harder than ever to do so. 

So why not start with the stories you hear in the passing of the everyday?  Seems like the direction people are headed is more sure than mine, more than ever.  Shall I even begin to hope to find myself then?