There is something about writing here that is so romantic. It opens the door to adventure and expression. It's existence is something inspiring and creates a facade which may not exist in what reality can handle. The fluidity of words may play the record of what seems unspoken; broken and raw, Its convenience lives in an anonymous character. Words connect where elsewhere is painful. A place where letters can play amongst themselves in a jubilant way, carefree and wonderful, un-afraid. This euphoric sanctuary can be found in the medium that we choose to use, conversations that we remember having, and conflicts that we constantly experience. A space where judgement is held against just these words I have chosen to use. There is no mess, no ink spilt across a notebook, no blood spread against a canvas. It starts here, ends right here and is barely visible to the world. I could die tomorrow, and my words could be found or be kept hidden amongst the masses of zeroes and ones, sunk beneath the blanket of posts by people more lively, people more bold, people who think, or are, sure.

But there is something about writing here that is so lonely. This fine poetry in all its anonymities creates a barrier against those willing to seek what they are searching to find. And the writer who searches for the one soul who truly understands. If there were no aim to write, would we write at all? Yet everything we do compliments our journey. MIstakes and successes, truths and secrets, shape the very being of who we are, what we seek and much more than we even know.

We are all just looking for somewhere to fit in, aren't we? Is it enough to seek riches, happiness and love? We seek what many before have inspired to achieve, we look in places where those have been, and we play history over again and again, forever unchanged. Is it enough to repeat what those have done? To be the same. Do we aspire to achieve something homogenous; the perfect life? Yet why do we contradict our actions by struggling to find ourselves. The need to love ourselves in every way, imperfect and flawed, is always becking. What is it that we really want? To love or be loved, to love more, or be loved more? To dine ourselves amongst materialistic riches or have just enough to survie and just a little extra for security? Our actions define us, but if our actions constantly conflict, how is it that we define ourselves?

The differences that divide us are real. But our fear of this is what unites us. You can believe that may be this rat race is necessary, its futile objectives important to help us reach that spiritual peace we are all working so hard to find. Or believe that it is all a lie. A ploy created to suppress a potential. Either are truths but either are lies.

Why am I always so scared, and ready for a fight, when all I want is to exist here with all my vulnerability? Here and everywhere.

What the hell is wrong with me? Falling in the same traps Ive set up for myself. I am disgusted and frustrated with myself. I swear, if you check one more time, just one more time, I will seriously, seriously gahhhhhhhhhhhh. verbal angry vomit, blast fight grr.

con·trol  (kn-trl)

What the hell is wrong with me? Falling in the same traps Ive set up for myself. I am disgusted and frustrated with myself. I swear, if you check one more time, just one more time, I will seriously, seriously gahhhhhhhhhhhh. verbal angry vomit, blast fight grr.

con·trol  (kn-trl)

I

am

currently

wasting my youth.

You know how you get the oldies yapping in your ear about their previous mistakes and then further extrending their discussion to try and save us from making the same? Living their hopes and dreams through us. Guiding us through life smoothly. Make us feel like we are currently

wasting our youth?

Actually I am probably delusional. No one has imposed their hopes and dreams on me. No projections or underlying influences. Nor has anyone even stopped me from doing anything.

Yet I still feel like I am wasting my youth. There are so many things I could be doing. Recently reaching the big two oh, I feel so wasted. Some days I feel on top of the world yet most nights feel like there is so much more. Bipolar much?

Anew. New happy and full of glee. I will redecorate,

the inside and out.

These days, art is not so trivial. It has become the canvas of biographies. Melody of life lessons and rhymes of sorrow and endearment. Things that were once so heavily dependent on writing has now found revenue in all above mentioned places.

Art is not a memoir. It is just beauty. Fashion is not a statement. It is just beauty.

Sitting pass two am smoking ciggarettes. Life is different. More lost than ever. Still the same. Much has not changed. The type to say little, too be heard less and feel more. Words disconnect. Tragedy pain regret lost love lost. Maybe I could jsut get away, but im running. and its always there. Im always there. And I cant get away.

My how you've grown. is what I hear a lot nowadays.

Linh has grown into such a beautiful young woman, once was an awkward child with a gap between her teeth, once was a tempered adolescent, angry and broken. Now a beautiful young woman, full of grace, dignity and integrity. Still lost thoroughly.

Much like the beauty of a rose, where the stem travels toward the sky, lined with thorns and disaster. Reaching to the sky as a bud and spreading outforth in every direction. Nutured and loved, weeded and watered. From such a sight sprouts the most beautiful, most recognisable, uncomparable; lovely. Spread its petals slowly revealing truth and what a thousand words will never describe. Now in its elegance, blushes at the sun. Still lost thoroughly.

Time travels so intrepidly, change happens so agilely. Ive grown so beautifully.

At this time of year, music cant sound any sweeter and love, doesnt feel any better than this.

The thinking you thought was a thought i was thinking,
like a melody untorn from the sounds of me sinking,

spiralling the night in the depths of my soul, you reached me where no one could be.. or go,
some think you're crazy, some even insane, but the message you've savvy'd has left me say ay, strained.

but here for you, is what im considering, is it really a true thought, or a want for a thought that is sintering.

and then i think, what you're thinkin must not be what im hitting, in the back of my mind through head down my spine.

cos the context is vague and the sounds are too blunt, and im heading where, i think, no one will want.

but that's alright cos it sparked a relation, between me and myself and the future of me.

what thinking does and do and will do.

Is trying too hard a sign of disfunction, when the words are splurging but the connection is malfunctioned.