I've put off writing for a while, even though I have more to say.
I expect too much of this.
In books, in movies, and in music, we reach a level of perfection that we can't reach in real life.
Everything fits perfectly, nothing is extraneous or awkward.
And it's beautiful.


I accept that I'm not perfect, even though I try to be.
I accept that other people aren't perfect. I don't want them to be.

"Certain flaws are necessary for the whole."
-Goethe

I enjoy awkwardness. It allows a mutual break from stringently fake social conformity, and, when used sparingly, strengthens rather than weakens potential friendships.

I just thought that maybe I could create the illusion of perfection through writing.
I thought I could create this metaphysical sphere where my thoughts were suddenly orchestrated into something beautiful.
I thought I could make sense of the gorgeous mess in my mind.

"My words don't travel far. They tangle in my hair and tend to go nowhere."
-Regina Spektor

I know what I want to say, but when I speak, I over clarify. I speak in circles, explaining in seventeen different ways until nobody is listening anymore. Somehow, after all of that, I still don't get my point across.

Writing helps. It doesn't magically make my thoughts clear and perfect and organized, but if it did, it wouldn't sound like me anymore.
Writing isn't for someone else to speak for me, to make me sound pretty. It's to make my voice heard.

All I can hope is that maybe you can understand me.
That should be enough.