Maverick

Its quarter past one...and its one of those days when its just me and a screen absorbing my erratic thoughts. When inspiration dwindles,caffeine induced bad poetry or stilted prose forged using impersonal third person voices is all I can manage. Although it becomes a matter of clinical curiosity to observe that after furiously typing down emotions hidden behind the bulwark of words, or typing down winding lines that curl into an insignificant dot or oblique allusions carefully generalized, I think- But this is not what I meant at all. This is not it at all.

Then what devil is it that makes me write? Your guess would be as good as mine but when the hideous chorus rises in my head, I haven't been taught a better way to cope or delude. With a little help from my necessary evil of course.
I am learning that when you clench too tightly, it begins to hurt. And I am also learning that if you clench sand too tightly, it slips between your fingers and...then that hurts.
I am trying to learn that my whimsical demands for closures need a tourniquet I can not undo later. And I am also trying to teach myself the exemplary balancing act.

Strangely I do not wish to bring this to a close now. Shouldn't closures be for matters resolved and not for matters which ride in tandem with incertitude? Choosing between right and wrong ails not me and things are not coloured by shades of necessity. My hamartia lies some place else...a farce in two acts.