Ink to paper. The clean, white, fresh paper has been defaced, maybe you can even call it vandalism. Is all vandalism bad? This one seems quite thought provoking. My thoughts are memorizing. Blank papers can be both restricting and freeing; a blessing and a curse? I have no idea what to write although I can write about anything. Anything. Everything. Nothing. I've got nothing to say although I've got lots of thoughts. Why do my words freeze in the back of my throat. Slide back down to the pits of my stomach with my spit. Then other times I word vomit. Say things I wish I could grab out of the air, shove back in my mouth, and swallow, but that's not possible. Oh how many times I wished it was. Word restriction, word vomit; I wish I could control my words. That's why I love writing, I think. Nothing on paper isn't erasable, crossoutable, manageable. Everything put down can be easily taken back, thrown away. Never to be seen. Writing, writing keeps me sane. Does it ever seem like sanity can make you insane? The fact that I write to be sane, seems crazy. Whatever, it's all a perspective. Perspective now that's something new. I wonder who perceived the idea of perception. The idea that others see differently. Thus, nothing is the same. Quite amazing if you ask me. But you didn't, did you? Because you don't exist. You're a personification, a figment of my imagination.
I think I'm going to like my creative writing class! (:
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