I am too happy to write. I might be on to something. I mean Sylvia Plath was not exactly a freak of nature. Writers are morose people, in so much pain that only ink and paper can alleviate it.
I am pretty content. I have dark thoughts at times- but without proper context, it just comes across as wanting to kill dumb people.
Writing like hooking up needs context. A space in which to exist and just be. Without context all you have are words strung together- and that hardly ever inspires anyone.
I suppose what I am saying is that I will dig deep within me for some pain. Damn the parental unit for being so nice to me. I wonder if nice can illicit some higher meaning? I shall look into it.
Since I am boring even myself- let me sign off.
