When I used to do writing assignments in school, my teachers always told me my writing had “voice”. What’s strange about that is the voice in my writing is the voice in my head, that is how I think on a regular basis. A constant stream of inner dialogue. I feel like I was meant for so much more than this life, I cannot explain it. My anxiety is at ease though, I am confident my time will come. People are strange, the way they judge people by their outer appearance or what they’re interested in. Who really gives a shit what you wear or what you like? If you can hold my attention, you’re worthy of it, seeing as that is not such an attainable task. You must be an interesting person to be allowed into my realm. Arrogant? Maybe. But selective nonetheless. I don’t know if I’ve ever truly loved another. I love people’s minds, but more importantly, I love thoughts and words and ideas. My child is the one exception. Love is ultimate sacrifice, and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for her. This is all so very scattered, an accurate portrayal of my everyday thinking patterns. It has no point, it never does, just goes on and on… much like life.