I've spent thousands of hours stringing letters together, like hundreds of Christmas popcorn garlands. I spin stale words into bright plastic facades. I've practiced the useless art of speaking so very much, yet saying so very little.
I reread my spilled ink and loathe myself a little bit, sometimes. Pretty sentences propped up against each other. Flimsy and fragile. I shape elaborate worlds that are destroyed with a sharp sneeze.
And after all these years of typing, writing, and subvocalizing, I still find I am absolutely embarrassing at trying to speak about myself with any intellectual honesty.
11:22 p.m. - 2015-04-08
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