Iím tripping on the freedom those valiantly say will come to us all. What about now? What is free? And does freedom mean a thing? What if there is always something tied to a choice and you have to just know what it is? Is this all redundant rhetoric? I think I may be a guy. After all, it is humorous to me to stay up all night finding euphemisms for Jugs in order to distract my husband from his work. But would I ever turn around and properly learn how to spell euphemisms? Perhaps. AS I just did. Are we all stuck, or am I just that weird chick who really doesnít think like anyone else so my words compromise between the appropriate response to a given situation and how I actually feel, which is constantly mired down by the weight of the ticky tacky, it all looks just the same.
What is it when a person feels more comfortable in absolute anonymity, and then the anonymity becomes a social contest? Where briars spout platitudes about the general human condition divided into 16 with fervorÖ.. All searching to mean something, and all searching to be similar. I adore in the similarities, but insubordination eventually prevails and I am caught with my trousers down and my hands in the cookie jar, I must have my little rebellions. And I must have them see it. And the divided self enters. Living with the rest of us. And how does one quantify this? And the blatant misuse of periods, and all manner of punctuation. I delight to make them cringe and then I wonder why I feel so desperately separated, but what have I then? Who am I then? Is a life all decided on one little choice? OR is everything as fluid? Why canít I feel like more than one person