The Real

I find it increasingly easy to be aloof. To not make sense to anyone but myself. It is easy to hide behind the masks that we wear as people. In an effort to clarify myself and my life, I want to write. To write accessibly so that others can comprehend, follow along, understand.

So here goes:

My life is great. Period.

I could spend a lot of time worrying about what is to come or how ends will link together and meet up.

I would much rather spend my time living. Experiencing, breathing. Those kinds of things.

I do know that I love to write. It's my own personal art. No, I do not have an ear for musical talents. No, my voice is not the greatest. Although both things are things that I would like to both refine within the boundaries of my lifetime.

I'm not a great painter, or sculptor, or drawer. These things take time to harness and perfect. Again, it would be lovely to find some time to work on these things in my life. And, perhaps I will someday.

I must be careful to make this not be a pity party of put downs. I love myself and who I am. The cheesiness be gone from this statement. I am not a 'hippy' but there's nothing wrong with being labeled so if you are.

So, here's to my art. The art of reflection, put forth through words. Words that sometimes can make sense to other people, and sometimes only make sense to me.



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In a completely different vein, I put up a new link today to someone's blog. I can thank Amanda for getting me into blogging, because it is after all another excuse for me to write. Oh right, and she's amazing. Oh right, and I love her. Oh right, I'll shut up now.

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