Sometimes the events that lend to the writing of them come at me in high-speed techni-color full-force action-hero sequence, and I write like the wind and yet I can not seem to come up with enough written to satisfy the necessary rehashing of all that's occurred. Other times, things are indeed happening, but they are surreal, untouchable, and I have no words to explain them, nor the drive to emit them, knowing I could not make them sparkle as they should. Then there are rare and peaceful times which have passed, time coming and going uneventfully, and I've nothing of particular note of interest to discuss. On occasion, something so stressful comes along that I refuse to acknowledge it in writing, thinking to do so would only be giving matter to an insubstantial idea, and why lend weight to a heavy topic?

Things have always happened. Which of them are consequential? How will we know? Only time will show.

I wonder what my story looks like from an outside point of view? I wonder which people know me at all? What most see can't even be the beginning edges of me; it's just shell, an exterior, an act for the world to see. Who sees deeper than that? My family--as they have witnessed my reactions, and considered actions both, for so long that I have become predictable--they know, cherish, and love me. One or two of my friends, and a handful of significant others I've loved along the way.

I'm discouraged this week. By loss. By discard. By waste. By disinterest. By the lack of commitment that has become acceptable and tolerable, in society and to me. By the attitude that it's easier to kiss someone off than to work out a disagreement that I've witnessed as a recuring theme as of late. We've all been fed shallow lies, and so our core is shallow, our roots near the surface, easily exposed and burned. Easy come, easy go, we've become a disposable society full of disposable people.

I am...disheartened.