Gladys and Pancakes.

My world has been quiet.  In a quiet way, I've been happy.  I've known contentment and peace being still.

A knock at the door.

Another face, another day, another moment to pass exchanging information like the regurgitating of a history book, informing its reader the contents of the book that they are spending time on, reading.  If you don't give them the information fast enough, they put the book down and move on.

It seems that when I read a novel, there needs to be a lot to envelope me in order to keep me reading.  Imagine how many books there are in the world.  Now imagine all the time it takes to read them.  What books do you spend your time on?  I find my self most pleased when I'm reading mindless books of science fiction, forcing me to use my imagination, which, lucky for me, is right beneath my eyelids.  I have a good gift at envisioning pictures and flat out...imagining.

I want to turn back times and fix moments where I was too confused to care about anyone else.  I want to erase words that I have said that, in fact, have hurt others.  I long to rewrite a few chapters, as I was in a 'bad state of mind' and ruined other peoples plans.

Sometimes I think at the core of me, I long to please people.  BUT, I remember how selfish I am and know this cannot be true.  Are most people really just trying to get what they want, whatever that is, and are they manipulating everyone around them constantly to get what they long for...?  Are there are a lot of people that need to go into the acting profession?  Why do we even know the difference between good acting and bad acting. (rhetorical question.)

My novel longs to be science fiction, but it is stuck in reality.  I feel stuck between two worlds all the time.  Is this why I can procrastinate so well?  OR do I just not think fast enough to satisfy those around me that are waiting on my slow molasses self?

Molasses.  Who ever just put some on pancakes and was glad?

I knew a woman named Gladys.  Her front toes were cut off by a lawn mower.

I have splatter painted sweatshirt that says street radical, but I don't really know what that means.

My mind is an open ended thought machine today not forming coherent lines.  You are reading the symptoms of my bubble brained thinking.  Feel privileged.  I know I do.