Wait a second.

My blog still exists? I remember when it was Xanga, but that was more for children. I suppose blogs gain some form of recognition at one point or another. And this is totally weird, but I just read a couple of my posts and they're not all that bad. I was just too green. And even to this day; still, I feel the same. And shouldn't be ashamed. However, I think it's more of a process of removing oneself -- severed -- from the darkest pits of self loathing where most of the confusion lies for me. In other words, I need to get over myself. Spending too long of nights hoping to drive myself to want to write. It's such a difficult task, literally, at hand to write imaginatively. Why spend the days drolling over personal issues? when all I desire is a pen at hand. Pen at hand to paper. The paper where it soaks one's soul wholly and always a mystery to these foot like blubbering, walking fingertips. Bones that should free the hand to glide the traces of your story.

Like Love, let it happen.