I feel I should keep on writing, blabbering on and on..writing meaningless things..no clue why..just feel the need for some outpouring..for whom, for some unknown public audience, for myself?? Fuck knows..
I weep without knowing why
I stare into space mindlessly
I work because I need to work
I want things to be different
I want I want....
Are my wants so many?
Can they be fulfilled?
I fear not..
I write because I can
I am because I am and this is mindless patter again..
Words are filling this space because I am feeling rage, helplessness and despair. Why does life have to be so fucking skewed? Because she can or some other reason where we are meant to go on living this life experiencing all the shit possible with a few moments of happiness...I wonder...
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