Sometimes life feels like a contour drawing.
Lines everywhere. You can't erase them. You can only tune them out by drawing a new line.
But those overwhelmed lines spill an identity onto the page.
The lines don't always make sense unless you're looking at the whole piece.
Even then, there's still that sense of obscurity present.
I am not blogging while I'm at work.
My mind does not continue to revert back to the idea of eating, change, foggy futures, butterfly tomorrows, and the same song reeling over and over my brain [tuning out the brief language nearing the end of the piece, all the while].