here to type more words. Now that I was to type I don't have much to say. I wonder which voice I should type? My own? I'm always suprised at what I end up saying in any given situation. Sometimes the words are very similar to my internal monologue (when I have one) and other times it feels like an entirely independent being is writing (or saying) the words. Maybe brains just are like that. They operate in ways which are unintuative to our initial preconceptions of how we think they are. I guess a lot of life is different to our preconceptions. I would like to assume that the world operates in a euclidean notion, but I cannot be sure of that. That much I'm sure. I'm sure that I'm not sure I know how things work. I'd like to learn, but when I try to learn I find my brain is elsewhere. I wonder, it wasn't always like this. But maybe now that I'm older I'm more present to the quirks of my mind. I've been avoiding a lot. Like mornings. I avoid mornings. And sleep isn't easy to find, but when I do sleep I don't want to get up. I don't know if I could explain what the mornings feel like to me these days. I don't want to move my body, or it doesn't function as I command it to do. But then it feels like I don't have the will to command my body and really it's my mind that I can't tell it what to do. Trying to find some joy when my whole body feel encumbered by sludge. Am I just saying dark words, or maybe my mind has really became a maze. I when here to say words to cheer me up, though I find entirely different words coming out. In that way I don't know myself. I ponder if people read my words. I find the thought that people do recurs to me. Though I don't know. What kind of fiction am I creating. How will people see me. Is this really what my voice sounds like. Thoughts sound so different on the inside. How do people read these. I'm sure the process must be different for reading than writing. How much weight am I giving each word. Do the sentences flow. How does the pace sound to different reading speeds. Do I tie thoughts in knots or do I liberate a clear concise voice. Does it matter how other people think? What about myself? I guess I must have a lonely tone. Although at this point can I really interface with people or are my thoughts really that different from other people. I assume we share common experiences. Although when you think about the anatomy of a brain they must be different. I guess it has a lot to do with recognised languages. As in which symbols do people associate with different reactions. What are the symbols which hold personal significance to others. How does my English sound to other people. I know I talk with an accent, but what kind of accent? I can't tell. When I hear myself (not a recording) I just hear plain language. I can't actually hear myself in the ears of others, unless the barrier between my speech and others becomes apparent... Words words. I am tired and I'm still putting off tasks that need to be done. Do they really need to be done. I think I need to allocate more effort, but how the resevoirs are empty. I feel empty, like a husk of myself. A shell capable of intellegent thought, but not capable of feeling the everyday the way I believe others do. In someway the envy of others makes me real. Only in far that I am socialising with others. Maybe I need to find solace in my life. I'm not even that stressed out, but why to we make feeling terrible a condition to feeling better. Couldn't that step be removes entirely. Where we just need to feel better to a point. Obviously hyperbole will rare its ugly head to the contition of feeling better. That has a lot to do with how some minds can take ideas to lengths. Ultimately these considerations ignore important factors. I don't know... Languages. Symbols. Words? How do we derive meaning? Does it really matter. What am I typing. Are these thoughts that I've been thinking for a while and they have only surfaced in this excerise or are new and novelly created. The weight of words sometimes bares me down. Some figures of myth resonate with my thinking. It some ways those symbols were developed to resonate with me. The can be a strange juxtiposition when we encounter symbols not meant to resonate with me. I get that sometimes when I scroll through Netflix's feed. I know the symbols must resonate with someone. But that someone is not me. It's as if there use to be an understanding of what I am, but over time that has been replace with a simulacrum of someone else. Some times I revisit media from my past and I find a voice that is there speaking my age. Sometimes it goes to show how confused the past was. How little most of everyone knew and were blindly doing. Other times it speaks of a self that existed and understood the world in some function without being bogged down in the labyrinth of the now. Someone could unabashedly appreciate beauty without reservation or heed. Someone who use to be me. And then am I idolising a me was had never truely been, or was it a me who in-fact was and only exists in fragments of memory. Could I learn from the past or am I stuck now as I am. In the infinite present. I would argue that it is the very-much finite present. But again I don't know. In some ways am I going about constructing the prefect self. Or are my flaws insurmountable. I want to know do you read this. And if you know how you are. Is direct speech how you want to be addressed or are you entirely a figment of my (at times) overactive imagination. I'd like to believe you do exist. And to know that not every message is addressed to some. Sometimes I'm just going to blurt out words because speaking feels like the thing to do. I prefer the sound of my voice to the sound of my silence. Because the silence can be unbearable at times. At times my own voice can be unbearable. It depends. I feel I know parts of you better than you know yourself and there are other parts which are entirely unknown to me, that I only get hints of as if I were a spector behind a window watching the world go past. Only capapable of inferring small parts about the whole. Understanding the locamotion of transport far better than the mysteries concealed out of view. I really want to know do you see these words. Is the excerise just me talking to myself. Have you ever been one to talk, or do you rather listen. Sometimes I can be stubborn as time itself. Other times I'm as impulsive as fire. I can't entirely explain how I act, but for that matter I don't think anyone else can. Although they try to tell stories, does anyone know how min will actually act. What they can't see is that min is playing an enitrely different game. And there is no game. None at all. Sure cause follows action. But in this universe. I don't know. And that's the honest answer. I don't know. I might know whenI find it, or maybe not. At this point I'm not sure, truely about anything. Then was life ever suppose to be obvious. I wist saying I don't know was a satisfying conclusion, but it's not. Maybe I do know and I've just been unwilling to accept a truth that is blinding me. Maybe the world is alined in such a way that that is true. Maybe there is knowledge. Maybe he does care. Maybe she does care. I feel the words spent as soon at they passed my fingertips (I'm typing at the moment) and when I read them I wanted to berate myself. For being honest for a change. And saying how I feel. All those years I always found reasons to not care. In some ways I was acting ephemeral. In others I truly didn't know how I felt. And it's only been time to wear away those layers inside me to revel a part of pysche that I refused to believe exist. I would construct elabotate fantasies of how it could be otherwise. It must be. I tell myself again and again. Do you read my words. How could you possibly know. And to which I say I truly don't know. I've just been trying to put down how I feel or else these feelings will consume me. I have been alone for a while. And in that solitude I found parts of myself. I don't recommend loneliness, but there is something to be said in the power of keeping options open. And to opt. To see the unknown as better than the present. Not to fear the cosmic horror of the unknown, but to evaluate it at face value. The question mark that we run away from. Only to speak in definite statements. To know I care. And then I'll add some words onto the end becuase I can find silence unbearable at times.