post-gustav

just as everyone predicted, gustav didnt really do shit. but thats not really what i want to talk about tonight. im not sure what i want to talk about.

esha told me its not my nature to talk. i wonder if that means i dont have enough to say, if theres some sort of threshold i cannot cross in my ability to communicate. ive always been a little more soft-spoken and quiet when people yapped on about bull shit. this is actually a pretty nifty idea to ponder.

perhaps there is some sort of untapped capacity inside me. perhaps i could have become one of those folks who chats a lot, but if you look at my writing- a truer glance at what i am- youll probably find im not really that comfortable with groups of people.

the way i see it (this was inferred from ernest hemingway) there are only two types of writers: those who can only find truth in other people and those who can only find it in themselves. the former must associate with as many people as possible to piece together a common human experience, the puzzlework of man. the latter can only write when they are kept to themselves, sifting through the recesses of their own insecurities to find what they know is genuine and hope they can make others feel the same way.

thats all i really have to say tonight. my eyes hurt a little.