Read This

An odd melancholy pools within my being, tender moments shut abruptly short into shattering by transitions into violence. What is supposedly inspiring only pushes me farther down into the depths of my unmoving soul. Who said that knowing yourself was a GOOD thing?

I'm barely cognizant of the thoughts flowing into the ink that's staining my fingers black. Typing it out is so much cleaner, but that's the thing. It's too clean, too sterile, absent of devices to spark creativity across its stationary screen. I'd much rather deal with my beat-up spiral-bound notebooks. (They have bright colors.)

I don't understand this need to move everything over into ethereal, intangible data. Books are soon to be obsolete, and so are CDs, newspapers, magazines, phones, walks.... Why put in hardcopy anything that can be achieved with the internet? I haven't the faintest idea. Touch means so little these days. ANYTHING can be done with a computer and DSL hookup.

What I think is of marginal value, however. I'm just one girl in a four billion person world, so what do I matter? Even if I were to shout my essence at the extent of my last heaving breath, it would go unheard in the clamor. With that many people talking at once, the din is simply unbelievable. I'm just one more momentary blur of features in this overwhelming crowd. Don't bother listening to what I have to say - it's not worth the strain on your ears. (Read it instead.)