Many words, many feelings but most of all many ideas. 

Each day is a recollection of what could have been, each look back on what should be, and then the page turns and the blankness glares back.  I didnt start out to forget but it appears the only way to begin is to have never walked that path again.  Constantly I struggle with looking back and jumping into the shallowness of close what ifs.  I look up and the shimmer of difficulty glides away with experience, and instead of simple words, the high master of pretentiousness takes over. 

Ugh.  Thats the best I could come up with when I pretend to be yet another South Asian writer.  It seems like we are word and adjective sluts.  No metaphor we have not stripped, no word that we cannot thesausarize so what used to be shit is now fecal matter of a food and mental by product.  The whiteness taunts me.  What looks easy to soil with splashes of wanna be wit is now littered with blankets of windy flatness. 

 I am not sure what these fingers want, and I sure as hell will never figure out what my heart does.  So I click away, perhaps to some epiphany nirvana, and to those whose minutes I store, you can claim them at my death in the chapter 11 section of my afterlife. 

Aha, a somewhat deep sentence that says nothing to end a whiny post! I have reached nirvana.

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