Sorry about this...

We are all silver platters. Filled with ironies, hypocrisies, pain, joy.
Perhaps we are all doomed to live as Persephone, to shift with the seasons, between sets, beneath stage lights. If only we had cues.
Realism is what pulls us against our dreams which propel us. We learn which stars to reach for, and which to let go of.
We’re always late, between coming and going. Dawn breaks, always welcome. Parts of us are gone.
Memory exists to teach us lessons. Beyond goldfish.
Our lives are labyrinths of narrative. We sow our seeds and check the output.
Often, there are few benefits to knowing.
If he owned a parasol, he would be here by now.
Rain is renewal. I watch the tides wash us away. We are clouds, ever drifting. Between ideas and people, here and there. Perhaps some day you’ll understand.
Our lives echo similarities. I hate them.
The hero’s journey. Destiny.
Are we all bound to learn the same lessons, time and time again. Down.
Persephone.
We bend backwards, branching out. Extending ourselves, in hopes of the sun. It is our nature to be optimistic. Unless our branches are wrenched away from us.
I envy the kites in the park.
Our stairs are winding. I don’t feel a thing.
I wish I were so much more than this.
I’ve lived so many lifetimes, yet been repaid with pains. Everything’s a trial.
I wish I were clairvoyant, and that others were perceptive. Some people never learn.
The lack of others’ lessons has tangled mine in knots.
Is the train arriving soon.
Why are we here, if every story is the same. Are all our stories the same.
This angle’s terrible.
I can’t see the screen.
I wish I had my glasses with me.
How a dove. Why does it rise in the morning.
Are we all borne as dew, and dry as we whither. What do we lose. The desire to learn.
Would we live forever, if we were meant to keep learning.
An essence of being.
Is learning an instinct, lacking in cognition.
Everything is a cycle.
I can’t feel my toes.
Why can’t anything just be.

Also, this is overdue... my internet had been down. Woops.

(how of writing and booth)-I was a member of my school's creative writing club and literary magazine for four years. In my findings of my responsibilities as a writer, I've found that, an aspect that's often hindered my creatitivity, I feel this sort of unease most of the time that people don't get the sense that I get from my writing. Sometimes their perceptions fascinate me, but usually not, as I think this stems from my desire to make people understand me and my struggles, as I doubt they ever will. I've tried to play this off as literary ambiguity at times but often I just find it frustrating, unlike with reading other works, where I find this aspect interesting. I supoose it has to do with an emotional detachment from the work. I agree with Booth that every work, whetehr direct or indirect, is an extension of the author, an appendage of their current thoughts and fundamental values. It baffles me how many people seem to oversee this fact and view the work as a completely separate thing, like a stranger to the writer.