Hidden Thoughts

Each day of my life passes ceaselessy by as if not a care crosses
its mind and the consequences are nothing but a buzzing fly that
could just be swatted off. Why I write of such dscontent doesnt
leave me feeling guilty that I\'ve wasted the time of many but of
why such emotions spill now?


It\'s been 14 long years and I am still to figure that solution to this mystery.
Writing once had a purpose, and sometimes it still does to me but now only minimum satisfaction occurs with each written fact, statement, or crappy poem.
To shove personal feelings in the face of a stranger as your words, MY words are blaring on their screen and expect them to be considerate and understand? And at the point a connection has somewhat been made and you feel you belong now, that you are not alone. That your pain is truly felt world-wide and I have been here, selfish and stupid not to know that real fact, but then why has contact been to few? It\'s not a feeling to share with close ones, it\'s not a subject of conversation that is laughable and can be discarded away as a petty problem that can seem to be shoved to the back of the mind for later concern.

My ramblings could be counted for as venting but no anger has been felt in my mind recently or none that I have recognized yet.

With the boredom of each hot, sticky, summer day, the silence is my worst enemy. The silence seems to make you think, constantly, out of boredom and thoughts, all of them of no real purpose, come to play with your mind. Sometimes happy thoughts, sad ones, disturbing thoughts, wrong thoughts, guilty ones , and even stupid thoughts at times just visit you until you never thought there could be so many locked away. Dusty memories. A few you dont mind prodding at, just to feel again and see, others you wished you didnt open or blow the thick layer of aged dust off. Like reading a short story. The pages will never change , the words always the same. Whether 10 years old or a million, they will always be the same. Pitiful how most of them were close to heart ripping, horror stories. Their audience was a simple small little girl. And her curiosity.

This prose or whatever it shall hold has no real purpose to other judging readers, but a past time to look at peoples works and see into their lives. Most hidden lives lived behind a codename and password. No real substance just flowing words of the mind let loose. Yet, their is a purpose after all.
My purpose, different from all of the people who think my rambling is really the insanity of a child gone mad. My purpose, to live life one step at a time.