Writing (for recreational purposes).

I love writing letters, but I have no energy anymore.
I love taking notes by hand, but I have gotten so used to taking them on my phone.
I love writing crappy poetry.
I love pretending that someday I will write a fictional novel based on non-fiction.
I love writing little songs here and there, although they never really make sense or pertain to anything.

For now, the part of my brain that does all of those things is locked in a cage.
Parenthetical documentation, you are kind of dead to me right now.


I would like to read all of the classics and some philosophy.
Maybe I will move to the wilderness and read and write and make art and live off of the land.
I wish Thoreau was still alive so we could hang out and be nature people...okay so maybe not entirely... but maybe we could meet up once a month to build campfires and read to each other.

I really would like a change of view, living in this city literally means driving in circles. You get so familiar with the streets that even though you are applying mascara, you know exactly where to swerve to miss that pot hole on West Alabama.

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