You look up from the desk and you realize you're almost thirty and every dream you had as a child is dessicated, hollowed and dried out by the Sun of reality...  You never feel any older, any smarter, still the same 13 year-old stumbling to get the thoughts out of your head faster than they pile up, still tied in knots by the fear that someone will realize you're not quite adult enough to handle your life.

And there's the voice in your head the idealistic one that can't stand to face the facts and wish someone would and you'd could give up all the responsibility and anxiety... It doesn't bring you any closer to who you thought you'd be, who you've always known you were supposed to be... and the 8 year old dying inside you dies a little more, the small death that never quite finishes the job... just leaves you there a little smaller, a little less able, a little more naked to yourself, to the careening chorus of judgments that swoop in every time you run out of distractions, like starving, filthy harpies and rip red flesh off the bones of a hope that can't, won't die.

Some of us write because no one is listening to the words we're trying to say, shaping crude emotions with ineloquent words, vomiting up our hearts blood in the faces of friends, family, strangers, counselors, teachers, therapists, anyone and everyone who'll spare a minute, if even only for money... yet they can't see our souls smeared across their faces when they look in the mirror.  Others write to get it all out of our heads and on to paper where it can't stink... purging ourselves of neural bile, toxic thoughts, a exorcism the demons of self, our conscious scouring the subconscious fruitlessly... Building castles with bricks of cloud, mansions to our weaker selves blowing away endlessly, heedlessly... the point isn't to finish merely, to move on, merely to keep building an endless revolution, rebellion against our better selves...

So it seems tonight, robbed of sleep and wishing for you... my beautiful, perfect distraction.