i thought i knew...

I thought I knew so much. I thought I was a good writer. And how could you blame me for either assumption? Everyone told me that least. And I believed. And a stupider thing I have done, though they are hard to list, for the sheer fact that there are so few. I thought I knew. I thought I understood. And maybe, now I DO finally understand. That I know and understand nothing. As much as this veneer of confident arrogance and know-it-allness serves it's purpose, I know better.

Why do I even bother writing here? Good question. Then again, I'm more likely than not alone again. I've lost my audience, or they have lost me. It doens't matter. I write for myself now. Pictures will serve as stimulants of memory, nothing more. To amuse is to amuse myself. To understand will make about as much sense to me as they do to you, assuming that is that you ARE reading this, more the reason because I'm liable to be the only person to read this. I'm sure you'd have noticed the basic outlay of the page before you. A far cry from the slightly more elaborate complexity it used to be. A shadowy form, suited to a shadow of a man. Or boy.

To say that I am who I was, is to lie, blatantly. And yet, I'm more what I used to be than I have been in previous months. With much hindsight, I'm beginning to think of this as an annual cycle. Kinda like having a year-long period. Which explains the constant PMS-ish condition I'm perpetually in. My mood reflects me well. It is quicksilver. And given it's the outside lining of this that I present to the world, I am aptly self appointed quicksilverlining. Does it make sense? Does it matter?

Poetry dies when the writers ends them. And yet they live almost limitlessly as they die for all eternity. The thing about a completed work is that it's both alive as it is dead. As solid as the beginning as the end exists. I'm confusing you? Good. Then you will soon leave I'll be left alone. Like I was meant to. I'd cry, but she would be upset. Or perhaps, she'd cry with me. She loves me that much, and I know it's true. The question is, was she right about me all along?

She's always avoided verbally admitting the fact, the fact that she loves me. And for good prudence. For people so bound by randomness, we both share an unwillingness to allow Fate to thwart us. And to speak something in arrogance or foolhardy confidence is to challenge Fate. And to do that is to invite, at the least, an uncomfortable situation. Maybe that's why I'm beginning to doubt my feelings for her. I say it too often. Ah. Recitals become meaningless words. Whole nations have lost loyalty through the reciting of oaths. Makes sense, no?

Jin out.