You've apparently

misunderstood those minutes I'd spend staring blankly at my keys. They were not spent backspacing and click click clicking away edits and thesaurus-bound words. My fingers lay on my lap, rearranging words and fragments I'd stored, in my head. Memory took and tacked and skimmed through emotion scattered across; it sat and waited til my veins drove floods of nothings onto my fingertips, and burst onto paper and moniter in a flow of consitency, and ambiguity. In a strange filtered sort of raw..the kind that felt, in place of deciphering. The sort that played as it spun itself..and refused to be done over in any way other than technicality.

These are not lies. These truths are polished, yet whole..passing through, but no less for the touch of organization. The conversation I feel most myself with, uninhibited; and, though reviewed, lacking in structure. Read once, twice, thrice over, and held highest when the purest of feeling made very little sense of it all.

What is it to be honest? It is not in the carelessness of being, doing, thought, or words..it is in the expression held in simple lines and times. Who am I to judge? No one of much value..who are you to compare? One of very little value, in all kindness. Convince yourself these are words worth disregarding. Conviction is vital in the belittlement of my nothings.

It's funny how you must've hardly known me, at all.
| {3:24 PM}