My thoughts hectic, my grammar failing. Terseness is prized. The creator is not terse. The creator babbles. Wants become empty words. Devoid of meaning. Unique writing is perhaps valued by my friends. My peers. My influences. Terseness with broken verbosity. A mirage in the desert, wavering when you draw near to any meaning. There is no intrinsic meaning. Only performance. My abstractions.
Do empty words become lies? At the point of telling or failure? Was my father plagued by hectic indecision? Is this a curse? I am often torn apart, emotionally, by my failures and hesitations. This is new. This is adulthood. A worldview I seek to escape.