monimina

I'm in hiding. I refuse to come out. I'm hiding in my books, in the lives of others, in other's pain, in other's joy, in other's sorrow. Why? Because I think. I think all the time, non-stop, fast as can be. I don't just think about one thing, I think about 20. I can even think how all of those things are related and how, just maybe, they're all my responsibility, my fault, my problem. And so I hide, I read about time travel, and vampires, and romance, and detectives, and I read. I read so that my brain doesn't think. I read so that all my problems get shoved underneath someone elses story.

What follows in undeniably a rant. Enjoy, or not. At this point, I wish I didn't give a damn.

Don't think that because I'm a carpenter I can't be an artist. Don't think that because I'm younger than you that I have less experience at what I'm doing right now.Don't think that because I'm muscular that I'm not just as easily hurt. I would say 'don't think' because that seems to be the common thread, but really, that's the problem. Thanks so much for giving me a chance, except for the fact that you didn't.