untitled

 I write this with knowledge that blurs my context. The knowledge being this will be seen. It's an intuition, an instinct to distort the way I think to fit yours. Why do I write? I write to save my life. I write to understand. I write to feel right. Nothing rights my wrongs like a fight won. A step closer to attaining and maintaining salvation. Meanwhile, I'm struggling with social starvation in this great big nation. It makes me more impatient when I have nobody to stay with when the light switch is repainted by the night's shade. I've never been clever, I hardly understand the weather let alone the storm inside. I would love to be able to take it in stride. A problem arises when I lie. A lie of omission, a chronic condition, offenses are most dangerous to the one who commits them. Lost knowledge, forgotten in consciousness, attempting to enjoy that which is unrotten. Now it is rotten by the one who wanted to be so pure. I know it's because I'm so insecure. It helps, you see? This isn't a reason, it's forcing permission. An act performed in repetition followed by an unskilled rendition of a failed man on a mission's romanticized vision of his poor decision.