27th Post.

Consumed by
laziness? Wanderlust? The feeling that I'm becoming normal, plain, mundane?
Whatever it is, I cannot concentrate on anything else.
Unable to assign and complete any tasks,
I'm instead consumed by the overwhelming compulsion
to write.

The words I put down seem irrevelant.
No goals in mind,
no purpose,
no intention.
Just writing for an unexplainable,
yet excellent, feeling.

These ramblings seem pointless,
but actually reveal
disguised emotions that can't be expressed elsewhere:
only here can I expose them,
without them being tainted with greed, denial,
or doubt.

For these few minutes in which I type,
my ache of uncertainty is dulled.
The release reminds me of feelings I'm yet to experience;
sex, love, death, drugs.

Too many secrets cause
too many lies.
I can forget these secrets when I write.
Nay, I can accept these secrets when
I write.

Ophelia