bwheeler
I feel alive lately, mostly because I am using words, words, words. It is great to be in touch again, with myself, whom I am, through words and the combinations of them. I am happy to be achieving my goal of reading more, writing a fuck of a lot more, and becoming whom I want to be, all through the expression of words.
Gawd, do I know the definition of this one. It is chaos distilled to insanity. It is hatred so deep there is a compression of manipulation atop pure contempt. It is where I came from. But no more. I am done with that.
Towers, towers every where. To scale them is the hardest thing, so I devise a plan, too complicated I discover. I let myself down when the first few steps are not accomplished and the tower stands vacant and covered with ivy, a relic there in my brain haunting me of my overambitious ideas.