On (my own) Personal Pieces

First off, let me say that I am aware my last submission was garbage. Even worse, it didn't have to be.

I wasn't lying in my last post about writers block, and what I submitted to you was actually written in three hours before class. No edits were able to be made (As if actual editing could be done in such a time!) and the shortness of the project was definitely a stunt.

The whole premise of the story was supposed to be that buisness, and buisness conduct, are changing. It hasn't finished in it's evolutionary process, and at the moment it rests on a pillar lined with the text of "rude" and "confusing." I wanted to exemplify that in the chaotic nature that is malls, and popular products.
I failed, miserably, but that was the premise.

Anyway, the point of this blog is that, after reading over, regrettably, what I'd handed in to you, I saw that, throughout it, there was a very thick layer of anger, something that is present even in these blogs. I'm not confused by this, seeing as I'm quite lucid when I write these things and do not pretend to ignore the heaviness by which I press my keys, but that it essentially nullifies certain aspects of writing for me, which is sort of neat.
I couldn't possibly be a journalist. Despite my own faith that I am writing in an unbiased, empirical standard, I know that, generally, I am dissatisfied on a level indistuingishable from that of stupidity. If it is indeed something personal, opinion-based, actual observation, or anything that is indeed "real," then I am simply not fit to write it.

I think of the girl whom sits in the far corner of the class when I write this. Whenever she speaks, her voice carries with it a hostility so obvious that the general lack-of feeling delivered towards her goes completely unacknowledged for it is simply known. This is not a "judgemental" look, for one's tone is truly one's tone, except I resonate with her speech entirely in my own personal writings. I too used to speak anger-through-dialect, except I eventually cut myself from vocally being hostile for the reality over time that my vocal-hostility polluted even my imaginative, original-project writings. Except, looking back on a radical-left newspaper a friend and I started when we were fifteen, I see that my writing is actually, truly, unbiased, and the philosophy present (Though I now would disagree with) is indeed plausible for it's manner of telling.

What is the real route by which one must act/feel to truly find their outlet of writing? Who knows...