I get frustrated with writing. But I get frustrated by not writing. There is something about it which lends me the semblance of peace ('semblance' because it doesn't last) and a perspective available only through the distance which writing can allow.

I must be meant to write - in a life that is busy with other labels and things to be accomplished - because all I am like a mad street person in her mishmashed collection of socialized humanity's scraps with my head down and my pockets full. I hoard my treasures and my thoughts; an no matter how open I may be I am closed to you too. Either way I gather as I go and my pockets keep over-flowing and I am in desperate fear of losing something that I may have forgotten.

Writing is wonderful because, "it is what it is." It gathers layers with time and nuances with each reading and reader. Yet it maintains it's integrity, all without changing at all. The immobility of a unique type of art. And yet it is incredibly accessible as these blogs, livejournals and online 'confessionals' - as I can't help see them as - demonstrate. And as good art exists bad writing definately does as well. This is mainly a segue into my observation about a certain someone's livejournal which is such a horror to read that I have become addicted. Mainly because the site incites an emotional response in me that I have been afraid I had lost - especially at this point in my life. I didn't really know people could be so blissfully unaware of their shallow cliched lives. Shouldn't you at least be aware of it all?

That said, I wish the man next to me in the CNH computer lab would stop scratching his arm pit through the front of his shirt in public. And then touch all the keys on his board.