My heart's in it

This is my life.

It all boils down to one small insignificant mass of text.

Whether it be my daily schedule, or the words I write that split my heart in two and leave me bleeding on the floor. I am beginning to realize that, this is where I live. Somewhere in the text that defines me.

Perhaps not me. But there is something, something so powerful in words that I can't describe and it makes me feel weightless. And I don't have to be anything. I don't have to try to understand it or realize anything. I just have to understand in my heart that this... this is what is sincere. Honest, and complete and truly most sincere.

There is nothing that makes me feel more... content. Then just... ripping out my heart and holding it above this page so that it can bleed out and form all these words inside it that are dying to be free.

How is it that, one... simple... non-"categorizable" form of... freedom. Is so important and so... liberating.?

But, this is what I've realized.

Writing is a zorse. It's not art, it's not science, it's not math, it's not anything. It's a little bit of everything, but nothing wants to accept it as it's own. It doesn't fall into any category.

I am a zorse. I'm not an artist, or a politician, or a musician, or a sorority girl, or a friendly adversary, I'm nothing... and everything.

I'm writing. I'm words, all of them. I'm a deixis and a complete mess.

I don't know which way is up or the map of my own head.

I am writing. I am words.

I am what I am.

My heart is so into every word that I cannot begin to express the way it feels to even know words.

I love writing. It loves me.

This is my heart, spilled out onto pieces and pieces of paper, paragraphs of emotion, or acute despair and truly amazing realization.

This is me. All of it. Every last piece of clause, and sentence, and grammar. It's all me.

I am words. I am writing.

It is my heart.

What's in it for me?

I sat down today thinking that I was pretty much done writing.

Who am I kidding. I'm fairly certain that this is what I was born to do with my life. And whether or not I do it is up to fate, but this is my passion. Sadly, it remains my secret.

Sometimes I wish that I could share my love of the written word with others, but I feel as though this is not a noted skill or art. It seems like I'm too... something to be a writer. Or writers are too something that I am not.

All that aside.

I want to talk about me for a minute.

In fact... a lot of minutes.

I like ducks and pigs and lots of farm animals, but usually only in cartoon form.

I don't like the texture of yogurt and

I HATE mushrooms being ill-prepared for something.

I like to create. And if I could major in anything it would be creation.

Where along the road to people start to know these things about you.

Do they ever know you as well as you know.

Can they immediately think to themselves, ah she won't like that or she will LOVE that. And be right at least 75% of the time? I think that somewhere along the road, you meet people that will know alot about you. And you will meet people that couldn't give 2 shakes of a lambs tale if you got hit by a car tomorrow. There will be people who come in and out of your life, and there will be times that you wish someone had stayed. However, there will always be someone new. Someone who will be there to listen. And someone who will take that time to make it worth your time.

There are things in life that we do for us. And there are things we do in life that we do just for the hell of doing, and there are things we do in life for others.

Why is the difference between the three so convoluted? And why is it such a bad thing to do something for yourself?

I think that in my life, I want to do as much stuff that I want to do as possible. The only person that is going to be around for the rest of my life is me. I have been living with myself forever, and will continue to, even if everyone else I know is gone. So why wouldn't I want to make myself the happiest? Maybe that's selfish, in fact, it probably is. But let's think about it this way.

If you spend your entire life, doing things for other people, while in turn, none of it benefits you other than "the feeling of doing something for someone else". Even if it's something you don't want to do. You will constantly be doing things that you don't want. and giving up opportunities! Why is that conducive to a healthy life?

I think that the only person who is truly looking out for me... is me. And if everyone is looking out for themselves... which they normally are, who is looking out for me? And when the shit hits the fan, who is there to back me up? yeah.... exactly.

I think that in all, there is only one way to make your life worth living. And that's doing what makes you happy. And if it doesn't make you happy. Then find something else that does. Because there are enough things in the world, that's for sure.