Hiding in plain sight

We are all writers, lovers, philosophers, poets, lusting, needing, thinking, believers, jerks, innocents, devils, psychos, theives, addicts, confused, brilliant, hungry, satiated, stunted, sly, tired, and illuminated in our own ways. 

As a writer, I have always wanted to explore these.  That is what I think this blog is striving for.

I love when bloggers write discriptions of themselves as lists.  I love to read these descriptions and think which numbers apply to me.  My mind cannot work like that, though.  I suppose I could put numbers throughout this, but it would be a lie, and as a recovering compulsive liar, I try not to do that.

I have a need for physical contact.  I tend to turn the bodies of people around me into objects.  Not objects to be looked at, but to be touched.  I touch everything I see.  This puts some people off.  It is not a sexual thing, I touch papers, books, coffee cups, tables, and trees the same way I touch people.  I just need to touch things.  I guess you could say I’m tactile. 

For a passifist, the things I write have a greatly violent side.  While I’d rather sit in the street quietly as a police officer beats me than fight back, the characters in the work I write have no problem with flesh and blood.  Teachers in workshops have always taken note of this, and I don’t know why it is.

I’ve been trying to get published, but all I’ve gotten is good at handling rejection.  I’m not good at dishing rejection out, though.   I get fooled into agreeing to things I shouldn’t often.  Too often.  I owe no one anything. 

Breakfast is the smallest meal I eat everyday, but I still eat it.  Thursdays are the shortest runs I do (4-5 mi.), but I still get up at 5 am.  What I want to say is that the little things count.  I love the details and the devils they hold.  It’s the poet’s soul in this ribcage.

I should be working…