i have nothing to write about except for how much i hate you. or dont hate you. how much i try not to think about what happened. but really its gentle wisps of hatered/judgement or meer vanity carrying me on a tyrant.
all i write about is 'growing' from my past..lets be real? nothing to brag about. as an entire species that is what we do; we grow from our pasts.
suppose i ought to persue my lost creativity.
They say one mans trash is anothers treasure. perheps ones emtyness is anothers fullness.