junk.

I'm home, again.
I promised to tell you something every day, but I continue to fail.
It's not that I don't have a million and one things fighting for supremacy in my head, because I don't (but I do have plenty), it's just that when I stick these letters together, paste these words into sentences.. I feel like giving up, because what's the point?
Nothing so depressed as "No one reads this anyway," etc. Because I don't really care if anyone reads this, I just don't know what I'm writing. Philosophically speaking, what does this really accomplish? Am I embellishing myself? Imparting a piece of my soul unto the void of networked computers, to serve the purpose that is null.
Maybe I'm just stretching my proverbial wings, getting a feel for the wind before I take flight? I suppose that's also how I should feel every time I do a major scale on my guitar or bass. Every time I draw a circle on a piece of paper. Thaw the meat for the main course. Lay the base layer for the painting. Frame the shot. Run the drill. Sand the wood. Et cetera, et cetera.
So much prep goes into everything, every window into my soul, your soul, everyones soul. Before you really know what's on the other side, you have to clean the window.

I promised to tell you a story, a thought, paint you a wordy picture that matters naught. And I haven't been, not because I don't believe there's a point - because I honestly couldn't care less if there is a point or not - but maybe it's because my wings have been stretched too thin lately. I stretch, I stretch, I stretch, I stretch until a muscle spasms and retracts, missing my opportunity to fly.
But it's at this point I feel like jumping anyway. Not to a gruesome death, to end this tragedy of missed time and opportunity. But to a reality I can grip in my hands. Something tangible, to show everyone.

Maybe I can write a book. Write a song. Creating beautiful art.
Well, no.
But I can control my stretching, and continue leading all of nobody on confusing wordtrips.

Sigh, and junk.