'Sup December?

Women, women, women.


With any art, be it painting, mathematics, woodwork, etc:, there exists a very obvious connection of self-to-work. With writing, it's a bit more obvious; if I am miserable, chances are that, should it be written impulsively, than the tone/theme of the work is going to be rather somber.

Instead of a solid emotion, though, like happy/sad, angry/glad, ecstatic/suicidal, I find the most authentic, and well-rounded feeling, to be shame.

Shame is like a wobbly bridge. You can be ascending, with a full sun above glostening over your car/helmet, basking you in light-blanket, or descending, with the rain slicking the pavement, your hands clenched in pure terror about the wheel, feeling each and every mild hydro-plane, and shame will totally null whatever it is that you are experiencing.
With the former, it should be obvious in the manner by which shame affects it. You feel it, and suddenly you just stop, get out and walk to the banister, and stand there like a weirdo. But with the latter, shame brings to it awkward things, things that don't add/subtract, but fully, and wholly, distort. One can be suicidal, placing the noose about their neck, and suddenly remember a time of shame. They will not fling themselves into oblivion, but they will wait, and remember, potentially forget suicide and go do something miserable like hire a hooker.
Shame does not kill anybody; it fractures them.

With how this blog started, I believe that my entire connection, and basic means of livelihood alongside shame, are connected entirely to women. Strange that women, whom are brought up with the full understanding that they are indeed valuable and damn-near prizes in regards to how men view them, are the very thing that make me want to put cigarettes out in my eye and inhale aerosol.  It is not lack-of, nor too many, but apathy towards those whom care for me that causes this shame.



No confessions are in this. Wrote this solely to fill in requirements.
Still am writing horribly.