Making mistakes

 

I am brought to the pages again…pages that have seen moments of sheer desperation, combined with the slow equipment I use to portrait my thoughts, and vast knowledge of the nothingness that surrounds me...yes here I am again.

 

Many could and would wonder why, and I know for a fact that I don’t care nor I have a valid answer. Why do writers write? Sounds quite redundant to me. Essays on nothing if you ask me. It’s very hard to correct past mistakes, you can only try to modify your behaviour, praying it doesn’t blow up in your face. But here I go again, filled with insignificant mistakes.

 

Knowledge, what is unused knowledge? Is it a waste of time to write these lines? Isn’t that relative to an individual’s perception?

 

I'm angry, I’m quite the angry person. Angry white female, early twenties, things never go my way. Where did I read that one before? Was it on some female rock record? Or maybe it’s been playing in  my head.  Sanity is not something to be taken for granted, my friend. I’m so angry I could put my fist through a wall, and I would scream in pain.  I would scream out in pain and then I would punch the wall again. Why? Maybe I’m just a glutton for pain and punishment, maybe it’s my genuine lack of interest. But that’s not the point.

 

Am I meant to be satisfied? Are my goals meant to be met? That alone sounds like a riddle... “meant to be met”, so good luck to me.

 

If a tree falls down in the forest, and in the city someone slams a door real loud, which one will sound louder? What would be more effective and significant in terms of shutting the world down with the help of a single noise? A single engine, that one unintelligible scream, that inevitable car crash that you pass by and can’t take your eyes away from? That unequivocal question that makes you wonder why you’re reading this to begin with?

 

What does it take to die? Is it will alone? A friend of mine said once, she said: “I’d be dead by now if I wasn’t a big wuss”. So from that I infer, and I say: do we have to be courageous to pull the trigger? Is that it? I’d punch this screen right now, but then again, it’d be pretty difficult to type this without making mistakes...and back to the mistakes...

 

I type fast, I type funny…quick like a cat. Mistakes can weigh tons, but they can also be light as feathers, like white lies. White cause they don’t mean much, or just white cause they don’t anything at all? Is the glass half empty, half full, or does it just have liquid in it? Why should be care about reckless notions and philosophy terms?

 

Why should we care at all?