Relative to "me"

I have been writing, or trying to write, a short story, but I have met the task with a mild disdain which is mostly directed at the subject, or, rather, the angle at which I approach.

I have two others in hope (dire need) of edit, as well as a novel (nearly ten chapters completed). All of which sit as neglected siblings: I am proud, but almost refuse to acknowledge their existence. Neither their breath nor appetite compels me to action. Oh, the book itself is quite endearing: vivid imagery and well thought out characters- such as you'd like to meet, but invariably would simply ignore in public.

I am quite the candidate for medication relating to A.D.D., but I find such prescriptions to be as intrusive as the questions required to make such a diagnosis. It is also an excuse I find terribly hard to give up, being that it is so convenient and understandable in these times.

I was born (it's true) with all the necessities to be successful in this world, and at the present time. I'm sure it is no coincidence, at least, that is, as sure as one can be about these things. But I have plagued myself with the question, "why?" I am a child in this fashion. Asking such a question about the very foundations of the way we live will inevitable cause one to quake. I have done my fair share of quaking; dusty air and crumbs of stone.

I was, at one time, a rather delightful and outgoing person if I should say so myself, but have become an adorer of seclusion and my own whimsical progressions of thought (they are like music to me). I am not without wit, nor a sense of humor- but why laugh? A sad face, as It says, is good for the heart (n'est pas?).

Two posts in one day! quite unremarkable really, if I were to take into account the notion that no one would read this. Oh it is quite true! Quite true! I am having an expectation that no one would read this, and in that I feel joy- perhaps a vindication.

Perhaps next time I shall share some study. I am quite fond of finding things, and expounding upon them.