Whoan..

I can't do this. I just can't do this anymore. I can't write about how I can't write anymore. I can't feel that I don't feel anymore. I can't go round and round, and yet I loop all the same. I can't... but nonetheless I do, I just don't want to.

I can not help but want, anymore than I can sate the need to question everything around me. I can not ignore it, and expect it to go away. It can not be dissuaded, it will not go unheeded, it will scratch at my eyeballs until it is free and has made a mess of me. How can you disregard something infinitely bigger than oneself?

How much of me is contained in the pages I scribble into the bin? How many ashen ramblings have flown away on the wind, dancing to the crackle and hiss of the fire, far, far away from me. More than I could possibly understand. How could I have someone read my work when, I can't even interpret the words that fly off my pen? What if they saw a glimpse of me that I haven't noticed? I couldn't give people that power to speculate. How am I me, and what do I mean?