Unerring Deliberations

Henry Thoreau once wrote, "It is not what you look at, but what you see."

I wonder if he kept in mind biased individuals.

I can't blame myself for who I am. I can only do what I do best, which is be me.

Laugh. Cry. Feel. No, they are not the same.

It's the pain we all run and fear.

Whether or not you think you know someone, the chances are greater you truly do not.

Might as well snicker at those who choose to pick off layers they've assigned you.

We waste too much time nit picking at the triviality of things.

Embrace fear. Embrace chance. Embrace the impossible. Embrace this.

The significance of a moment, a person, a laugh. It's all the same.

I've often wondered why I set the clock half hour ahead.

In fact, I know there's a somewhat rational motive, but here I am illogically living in the past.

The people I could have seen, the places I could have been...

Playing around with iambic pentameter, and fucking up rhythmic variations.

Hell, John Milton did it in Paradise Lost.

(Shuddering) Who in the hell reads Paradise Lost??

Where are the coteries of British author enthusiasts?

Shall I cease the search for the literati?

Are there membership fees? I don't remember my password.

Have I gone mad? Simply put: I've too many distractions. All to hide from myself.

Wickedly unaware. Has ennui found refuge in my pen?

To write a squib or not to write a squib. That's my choice.

Yes, that sums it up.

Is this the beginning of an ineffable fate?

Have the bloggers gone into a state of stolidness?

Bugger off.

I've never left.

There's much adulation for the arts these days.

Fat Pig?

City Paper. DCist. The Post.

Chagrin. Zip code doesn't match circulation of above.

I've never left.

Amid the distractions, come a solemn bravado.

Yes, that's more like it.