Everyone wants an identity. Identity needs originality. Originality thrives on creativity. Creativity stems from imagination and imagination branches out from experience and/or random thoughts fabricated in that fucked up little mind of yours. And as you walk down that street with your lit cigarette you reflect on your wasted life. A life that sucked. And why did is suck? It sucked cause you made it suck. Because you didn’t realize that it sucked until you actually noticed that that was all life could be for you. And that sucked. This little girl in her little world. Little him and little her with their little kids and their little car. Little life and little dreams little bubbles that POP when you touch them. So delicate. Everything is delicate. You little rose so delicate. Pliant yet when I bend it too far she snaps. It snaps. Everything snaps. I wonder, when will I snap? So I sit here talking to you
today. Not reading for all this comes to my mind as I think it. Dare I write it? And for what? For it to be horribly plagiarized? For someone to take my work as their own and
greet all the praise they get as their own because it was their hard work that made it? And yet it still gets taken. By him in the corner and him in the corner and him in the corner and him in the corner of this room. Don’t stop writing now that you’re caught. It’s expected in a world so built around deception it’s expected. So what is perfection? Is it poise and grace? Maybe intelligence and beauty. Could it be blonde hair and blue eyes with a posture so straight a ruler looks crooked? And we all get the surgery. We all want to be perfect. Perfection can be bought but identity can’t. Does this mean there’s no such
thing as a perfect identity? And what if one day we’re all perfect who will identify us? So where does this all get thought up? How do I just say this as it randomly pops up in my mind. Telling me to say it. Possibly telling me to write it. Doing as I’m doing now though I told you I wouldn’t. Think back to when you were at home on that rainy day with that song on repeat that made you FEEL. And you felt so you thought. And you thought cause you felt like it. And the feelings... the feelings become strong. Strong enough to say one word then elaborate on it until it’s a phrase. No until it’s a thought. Until your thoughts come together and you have something to say. So you say it. And people respect you for it. You’re respected and life just doesn’t suck as much as it did anymore.