Vexed

People are so terribly disappointing. I'm sure it's no one's fault, simply they are at fault for being human. Still, I find myself newly disappointed all the time. I know I am greatly liable, being as I am also condemned to constant inconsistency. Sometimes, I wish words didn't exist. I wish I didn't have to communicated with you through these absurd letters. I feel so foolish, because it is a vain attempt at a connection. My petty attempt at intercourse with you, The Reader. All I have ever wanted was intimacy with you, a stranger. I fear my words do not have conviction enough to entice such an exceptional act. Can you tell, Reader? That I can never get to the core of my conviction? That I run in a circle of futile attempts to actually express what I really mean? It's such a strain to hold back, but it's impossible to release. How, I ask you, how can I ever be a decent, let alone note-worthy writer, if I can not learn to release? Not in any sense, do I know how to release. Not when I speak, not when I touch, and certainly not when I write.

However, I hold this inter-web journal (or whatever you may call it) close to my mind.
You shall not perish, dear Reader.