Too much and Never Just Enough
Nope, not another article about any idiot Trump . It's all about me, as usual. In that way, I'm indeed like Trump. At least in my blog. Me and my feelings and my thoughts and my blog- it's all I seem to write about. In the past silent while, my shunt has been its mercurial self, and hence, I haven't been myself. Ideas galore, fatigue, and bone-weary from the ineptitude that I think I show. Also, I constantly ask myself what difference my writing or painting or singing or reading or coding or parenting or my life itself- makes. If I am to be Hemingway, I'd already been one, won't I? In my rational moments I know it's not for others that I write, but my self. In my other moments that seems selfish. On the other hand, without serving my purposes, am I some other kind of unnatural being that is completely altruistic? Not even plants are that. Surely, not my kind of living thing called humankind. So there! My brain not-withstanding, I am a writer and I shall writ...