Efflorescence

November 15th, 2am.  From here on in, I write without a script, see if anything comes of it, instead of my old shit. I’ve re-written this about twenty times now – that date, up there, has changed enough that I want to punch myself for constantly delaying this inevitable thing –, and each time, I’ve been unhappy with my own words, without really knowing what I even want to talk about. Despite that, I feel like I had them on the tip of my tongue for weeks, months even and never really sat to write them down. I suppose that explains why I want to write so badly: decluttering my mind feels like it would make life so much simpler. But what to talk about, what thoughts to put out there for the world to hear? Love might make me sound like too much of a romantic, too much of a sap, which is not so far from the truth even if I’m quite the skeptic at times. Life will just make me sad, as wondering about a perspective future usually does, I’m a fatalist always. Politics is...