Tools of the Trade

I'm a writer. I'm a musician.

I have no emotion. I'm emotional. I'm shallow. There's more to me than you know.

I'm bipolar.

I have a six-page document file in my computer entitled "ideas". It's a list of words that makes sense to no one but me. It's close to my heart. As new as it is (probably two weeks old), it's holding my future. No one will see it but me. I showed it to Weir once, but that's probably it. He's my rhythmic self. I'm my melodic self.

I think people try to over do everything. Self-example: I used to think I was born mentally ill, but it turns out I was a blue baby, and that's all. Because of this thought, my mind thought it would be cool to develop a phobia of the mentally ill. This mental illness-fear eventually did spread to physical dysfunctions and things of the sort.

I'm afraid of really old people.

My point: Things like what I mentioned (also supported by the fact that I listen to music really loudly when I drive) are solely done to be noticed. People strive to be known by other people. It's our purpose, it's our overall goal. My way to obtain this omnipotent goal is music. I'm a hip-hop writer. I'm white, so I'll stick to the limits established to society. You'll all see.

I blame other things and people for my own flaws. I'm flawless. It's the wind that made the ball go out, thalassemia is the reason I can't run, I'm not famous because others try too.

Thalassemia is a bullshit excuse of mine. Never let me use it. Ever. Here I go again. It's your fault I use that bullshit excuse. Another bullshit excuse of mine. I self-inflict.

Don't we all?

I'm a scribe. We're all marionettes.