Thursday, September 4, 2008

To speak, to say anything at all is to put oneself in jeopardy or peril. How odd for a one-time writer to be silenced by emotional blackmail. How can a heart and mind contain this quantity of anger and frustration and forlorn eagerness and yet stifle it behind walls of silence? Is it of a finite size wherein all this is contained? Will it rupture one day spewing forth all contents and creating havoc and upheaval on those I love? Or will it be so contained as to put immense pressure on the brain shorting out all thought and leaving in its desolate wake a blithering idiot? Am I destined to be one of those people who is found in a bus station with no former knowledge of who I am or how I came to be there? Would that be a better existance?

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