I haven't written solely for myself since I was a child, and even that was only a short-lived stint filling the first section of a small journal with exclamatory descriptions of my family's Disneyland vacation. I had no censor. No reflective "other" sitting shotgun with it's critical gaze cast upon every element of style, scolding my runny fingers for being so accident prone. I've personally never found it to be worthwhile to keep a personal journal, as the prospect seems to only encourage neurosis. I should find the idea of maintaining an online blog to be ludicrous if there weren't any feigned audience at least floating formless in the writer's banks. Naturally, I find myself writing to the nearest riders I've read, answering them respectfully and likely formulating new questions. Acknowledging directions and letting signature flairs fill in the blank stretches. Burning out easily and resting often.
I take my time and somebody acts jealous.
"
Must be nice" they would spout with that trademark cynicism, in all of one breath condemning good fortune as they validate themselves with another number, peer pressure enabling longer periods of smooth, unnoticed surrender. I gradually dissolve as I enter the scene, implicating myself until I can no longer physically gauge my affect on others. Blind faith would hardly last here, as the conscience quickly metabolizes it, abandoning the hollowed host to sleep off it's lingering doubts. Who is this crowd that haunts me? The oppressed become my own oppressors and we suffer well together. The moment I'm forced to defend my freedom, it becomes something else. My constitution is public domain. Proof read. Going through motions, hoping to catch a break. Can I get a witness?
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