It’s all a fluke, that’s it really. Just a fluke of the mind, the brain, whichever. A fluke which makes me be able to sit down and go at a piece of writing as though approaching it like a visual artist doing a painting, or a sculptor sculpting something out of nothing. It’s.. weird, it’s rare, I guess, and it’s definitely an acquired taste. But then, that’s exactly why I wrote enough to cover all my tracks with time. I have no clue where I’m going with this scribbles stuff, like.. zero. Zero idea if I have anything. Zero idea what I am even trying to have with the scribbles. It’s.. all a little surreal, I suppose. That anyone might consider me any sort of a poet, or writer, or whatever the heck those kinda people wanna call themselves. But that’s the thing. I’m not one of those people whatsoever. And have never had an interest in being one of them. I have no association or anything to offer them in a conversation about writing. It’s as though we are on totally different pages of the same book per se, and that they never combine at any point in time. When I talk to a writer, I honestly may as well be talking to an accountant, or a shopkeeper, or, heck.. a door. I’ve nothing to add but to take a silly sentence from them, maybe. And to write about that at some point. I guess I am kinda a bit of a freak on how I approach it, but I can’t take the blame for that. That’s what the onslaught of ocd rumination for, hmm… three quarters of my life did. Landed me with an odd ‘ability’ to place words together in an attempt at creating an odd ass story. But then, they’re not really that odd. I can read them out and explain their utter sense, if asked to do so. But yeah, I definitely deserve to reap what I sow with this thing, that’s a motherfucking given. I didn’t walk through all of that to end up stacking shelves in a supermarket. No offence to anyone who does that but sometimes I’d literally give my right testicle to be able to have that kind of a mundane life and mindset. To work, eat, eat… EAT, sleep.. repeat. Holy shit- wow. People have no clue how lucky they are, from my skewed perspective anyhow. Every single problem that they tend to incur, I listen to and literally think: “well, there is NO POINT IN WORRYING anyway, cos that does absolutely NOTHING but waste your time. I guess I’ve jumped so, so outrageously far ahead of myself owing to the overthinking of ocd rumination I’m attempting to find the answer to EVERYTHING that, now, if you put a gun to my head.. the chances are I’d smile, shrug my shoulders and go: “Well, this is an odd situation. See, I’ve been to every possible part of the mind and imagination and its… downfalls, etc. So, really it renders day to day trivialities and seen-to-be ‘problems’ as… rather worthless and kind of… humorous