a veritable holocaust of opportunities, missed to death
each piece of writing isn't how I really feel
its only the times that I choose to capture my mind into ink and quill
several moods have to align in order for word to solidify out
almost like a rain drop condensing in a cloud, forming rain words
the proper conditions have to be right for the storm
those are:
a care for introspection
whatever shape or form the analysis carves into me
a belief that I am thinking of something profound enough to tolerate the pinching linear 1 dimensional process known as writing
and how well I can grasp and capture that analysis into words, they don't capture well...
but my mind does reek with ideas
a fountain of thoughts, sometimes a fire hose, some times a trickle
some amazing, some pathetic
some inspiring, some toxic
never the less, my writing doesn't represent my mind well
it is only in those conditions and hence those filters that anything is even written at all
and everyday I think of something worth writing, every hour I do so
and they are lost
a veritable holocaust of opportunities, missed to death
