Tinkering, excuse odd coding
So this is where I've landed.
For those highly susceptible to spontaneous bouts of pretentious verse, perhaps this is not the place for you.
I am an explorer in exile, a skeptical observer and whatever comes of those two endeavors is, for now, the sum of me.
Other than that sum I haven't much of an identity just yet, not one that I'd hold on to too tightly that is. Sure, a name, a face, but nothing quite beyond that I'd trust with any kind of permanence. It's not so much that I'm mysterious or an enigma just, transitory. I do care but intermittently and unreliably. I can't even count on my apathy to fall into routine until the pattern has been laid out at an obscene scale. I'm an observer, the ultimate of vampires, I take in existence with out much to give back.
I don't know what I've come here, as this, to find but better to lay a foundation on a whim than go wanting for a platform when need arises.
I am human, I've been known to argue, to dabble, to laugh, to listen, but do not underestimate the distance lingering at the edges. If I'm speaking do not assume I have a point; I have a habit of making ripples to prove to myself that there are others drifting to notice.
For all my elevated speech, I'm not above play or poses, but simply enjoy the shape of the sounds. Pay no mind to the wordplay, it's mostly for me.
All of the filigree aside, what I seem to be struggling with when writing this is how am I to write what I know when all my core beliefs firmly proclaim that I know nothing? Who I am now is a constant flux horrorshow menagerie—no, not quite so melodramatic—a gnarled silhouette of a dream I’d once had—no, a romantic I am not (at least not as of a moment ago)—perhaps I know better the “nots” than the “nows”. The only constant I’m finding in who I am now is that she is not who I was then. And with that final flourish I feel I’m finished for now; I’m pounding my fingertips raw from the cacophony of nothing I’m spewing and my soul is getting sore from the desperate poses just struck (I lied about the filigree).
