begin_again Death of a Rose I can't, it's home to me, this hell. Looking for something uplifting, you won't find it here, as I've realized that while I am a good person in life, I'm a horrible person in my own mind. I begin, I end. What was inbetween? Short experiences, weird remeberances, classic examples of doubt and shame. I have so much in here with me, it rates a gameshow to guess it all, although no prizes are awarded. This has no fanfare, no welcome, no belonging. It is simply me that tries to remember a time when nothing was wrong. Even this writing leaves me puzzled, as if this is a fragment of a another dream I had. Of those that have greeted me and shaken my hand, they are but distant voices in another world. A crayon has more hope of lifting the pictures into brilliance. I self indulge, I listen and regard, I am quiet with everyone. So much I have looked at, so many situations that have left me wondering why this is a standard way. Another impermanent blue feeling, to drown in another crisis of the fingers touch. 051224 what's it to you? who go blather from