Cracked.

Sometimes its better to think. To lye on a beach somewhere and ponder. Ponder the eternal questions of life, ponder the why's, the who's, and the what's. Sometimes its better to talk. Vomit the incessant gibberish that comes tumbling out of your mouth. Share all that is on your brain without a care in the world of who you influence or who you hurt.

Often is better to do neither but to sit and listen. Absorb all that is around you and be aware. Listen to the crickets chirping their melody, the pit pat of bare feet on the pavement, or the slow breathing of a lovers breath. Listen to the stories of wonder and mystery, while never forgetting to pay attention to the bullshit, the lies, and the half truths. Always revel in the song of life, because it will lead your feet to where they need to rest.

Psuedo-intellectualism? Maybe.

Yet, all I do is write what I feel. As I have mentioned before, perhaps I really don't know what I am talking about. I write from experience and emotion and if that in itself does not contain some semblance of truth then I might as well pack my bags and throw my pen away. For then, I have absolutely nothing to offer.

I am what I am. I offer you glimpses, and its up to you if you want to ignore them or to listen.

I love, I breath.
Much like you, I am human and capable of much fallacy. Do not take my words for truth, because I do not offer them as so. They are an extension of my life, and accordingly should be nothing but words to you.

Sigh. I have become much too pensive for my own mental health these days. I want to turn it all off, I dont want to write about these things. I wish I could. I wish.