It can be black and white, it can literally be whatever it needs to be. This thing about thinking.. about what exactly. Shopping lists, making the bed, paying bills, buying a house. It’s all.. a supported thing whichever way it flows at the end. It’s all a rough ride only I don’t appear to notice the ‘rough’ part in it. It’s part of the process and I need to personally absolutely ignore this stuff about the positives and negatives. Throw out all of the words that associate with moods, feelings, etc. It’ll only ever add a voice to it, quite literally. I’m of course coming at this from an entirely different angle of mindset but it’s still ringing true. Funny for someone who loves to write with all of the words he can muster to say to throw out all of the words. But it’s not the words for me at all; it’s not even… followers on Instagram, or, shock horror, gaining a readership. My readership for me right now and always will be those who support me at close range, those who know that my style of scribbles and my personality are a world apart. And the most important part in this somewhat vain-glory post, which is to be fair what Instagram is, and I ain’t no exception to that, is that the last person in the world who I want to entertain the conversation about is myself. I observe and am as happy as a pig in shit doing that. I comfortably clocked out a fair while ago. Do I get why some people beg for silence sometimes. Yes, and no, in equal measure. I may as well be a walking, talking pen at this stage, to be perfectly honest. Yet, at the same time I could rather happily throw all of the stuff I have written to date down the drain and it really wouldn’t bother me. Probably because it’s spiked with an agony so fucking deep and unfairly that that style is rotten to me now. Good rotten, I mean. Cos, yeah.. rotten can in fact be good