Lost in our heads.

My writing is a scramble of incoherent ramblings filled with naive thoughts and vague half-formed ideals. Why do we writers do this to ourselves?
I will never be a published philosopher creating new earth shattering theories.
Nor will I ever write the next American classic novel.
But we try try try.
We let our thoughts consume us, live in our minds...never fully part of the real world, yet never entirely escaping reality.
I can't relate to humanity, but human existence fascinates even the most basic of writer. We wish to capture moments on page, emotions with phrase....all in a vain effort to make the meaninglessness of live be poetic.
I cling to my writing the way an adolescent clings to a teddy bear when they know they must soon hide it away in the back of the closet...shamed a friend my call them childish.
We all try so hard, but who ever really makes any impact?

wegetlostinourheads.

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