I am not.
No inspiration strikes me to write beautifully. not that I usually do but let's just say i'm more a slave to a certain kind of muse sometimes. This is not flowing and I want it to but. nevertheless, I long for expressing what I am thinking. It is almost impossible not to get lost in the branches and distractions my brain offers, words that jump up when they're not supposed to be there. I will lead you not to the result and neither to the root, and in this chaos of paths, somewhere, someone, maybe someday will find me. At my age, it seems that I have lived most of my life locked inside my head. The monsters and the angels, playing there. Offering pain but also safe recluse for the world out there. I have not lived the 'out there'. The control of my head kept me there and the projection of my being in this universe has spun out of control into complete nothingness with respect to experiences. Still not independent, still not confident, still dreading simple p