Satan In A Straitjacket

I wish this was a justification of what and how I write.

I wish I could explain myself without leaving metaphors lying all over the place. Saying poetry transcends all time and space would just be a weak-assed, hollow little assertion of why I choose to post what I do. Even though mine siezing PC doesn’t blend in with the 'grassy dale-starry night' thought continuum, I somehow cannot allow myself to write elsewhere.

Sometimes, you just don’t know what to do with how you feel when you’re in the moment. Looking back and sorting things out rationally, whichever way I deem fit, has always seemed to work for me; saves me the shame of the impulsiveness I do not need. For it is far too easy to hate and fall out love and say things you didn’t mean. An animated screen and size-14 Garamond fonts do me more good than a shaking hand and a fuzzy head. If my honesty seems like a pretence, then I’m afraid I have nothing more to say.

I’m not very good at ranting either; it’s just too hard to inflict my childlike selfishness on somebody else, to write something that nobody could ever relate to or find any use for on any plane. It comes with the responsibility that language brings with it; I believe it’s called restraint. But, then again, I could be wrong, or insecure, or afraid of letting strangers laugh at the arithmetic progression that is my life. Wit and convoluted sentences have their time and place too, if only I could find out when and where exactly. Much as I’d hate to say so, not all my actions are deliberate; in matters like these, everything goes.

You can always choose to look away if you do not find what you’re looking for.