Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.” — Virginia Woolf

My dabbling in writing is that of a poet that failed to understand the concepts of 70 now 72 different forms of poetry even after taking more English in high school than the average student along with college.

Along with other classes I would suspect I am dull witted if it was not something inside me realizing at times these are not the words I was meant to write nor was this something of interest to me.

That awkward moment when realization hits.  I am not even writing in English anymore.  I am writing some mumble jumble that make sense to people that were screwed out of their reality too.

If that was not hard enough to deal with the realization that several television programs the language both body and mouth do not display what the english is suppose to have meant, means maybe those shows are now talking about a totally different topic and like a deaf man looking at the lips of a person that moves five times for a two symbol word just is awkward.

I wonder if I am even hearing anything that is really going on around me.

Meaning I seem oblivious but on certain days I am sure certain people are upset with me for a reason in yet they seem happy..  Maybe you are crazy?  Sure sure.. I am crazy.. I agree I also agree that to be here according to closed time curved reality means you have been dead a long time ago..