Swift

I felt this need to write because well it dawned on me that no one actually needs a reason to write. We scribble to-do lists onto small scraps on paper, we doodle in classes where the teacher is clueless that we're doodling [cos a teacher who actually has a clue would be curve balling his duster in the old days towards our young young brains] and we just write whenever we feel like it.

There is no reason for the written word. There is no overwhelming guilt trip on needing to prove you're a wordsmith day in day out. The exception being when you're actually paid for writing what you write.

I need to write. To save my soul, I feel. I've begun on an ambitious endeavour. Just like numerous males, females, celebrities and paupers before me. I think someone needs to hear a story. Any story, as long as I am the one telling it.

Today is an ominous day. I am finally back where I was before. The tundra where I was wandering has met it's Palin. So, I need to kill some moose. I know you don't get it. You never should. Lest I be regarded as a lesser being for giving you even a miniscule percentage of hope that you are finally there; knowing who I am.

Like the greatest white rapper of black themes who is still living [as opposed to ever lived]: I am whatever I say I am.

Haiku time:

How swift,
My sword.