So much energy to write, with so little time. Such a fluid mind, to not be the work of the divine.

Living off life’s vices, like my life depends on being idle, yet alive in what feels like sea of Pisces who  know how to love righteously. I don’t belong. I feel alone. Why?

I’m just a conflicted Gemini, who wants to stay high, never low on energy, always alive, with a deep desire to thrive in every aspect of life, not recognizing that my emotional overload often brings about strife, with both those I love, and the one who lives above.

I die when I limit myself. I die when I rely on a formula to which I should write. In fact, when my creativity is incarcerated for days at a time, I die inside. Forever misunderstood, but forever trying; as long as I have these words, I’ll never be dying.

Writing should be free. Society ruins beautiful things with structure and consistency. There is something about the chaotic, the eclectic, the inconsistent, and asymmetry. Such entities will forever be intriguing, to me..and thousands of others, just like my big brother.

How long can a woman like me hold the interest of any,  or of many, or of many men? How can they be so afraid to penetrate something higher than what sits below my waist, to something that encompasses my very essence and my tastes; my mind? How can they be blind? How can I trust the promise that if I do not seek, then I shall find?

What if I think it’s all a grand waste of my time– just like scouring the minds of the masses and their reactions to injustice, and media distractions; would I ever truly be able to rationalize their thought processes and the lies that they all hide behind? No.

Maybe, I am extreme in the way that I view things. Maybe, I over-analyze almost everything, to convince myself that the lies are true. Maybe I do myself a disservice by believing in you.

When I say, you, I’m not being literal. You is pivotal, because you is everything that exists outside of me, yet you is made up of pieces that are derived from me. We are products of an environment with arbitrary hierarchies of importance.

There is one thing I know for certain, after rambling on like those in America’s churches; that is, I needed this session of confession; I needed to open up about depression, confess my transgressions, in such a way that remains in my possession.

That’s called progression…

Creativity is light. Passion is bliss, and that’s why I write.

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