Lately I've become such a bookworm, library geek, literary nerd hellbent on becoming an author. It's so not like me. I spend most days dreaming away, pretending I have enough talent to become some great musician. While all the while I do, and lack the passion I have deluded myself into believing lies within me. So I listen to music, and let my heart sing, every homework assignment a new creative experience to keep myself from asphyxiating beneath the stress. I still miss my Beautiful. She will come back someday, like the caterpillars I saved from traffic as a child, unknowing that they later flew by to keep an eye on me. I attempt self-comfort with these words, but the reality remains that this house chills the bones and constrains the soul. My mind is freezing to numbness, eyes bending light too far into frenzied blurs of nonmotion. It's impossible not to find peace in this moment of numbness, of that natural high and mighty tingle coming on to the sound of ambient music. It is a sort of pristing beauty, a calm that fills the body while the mind's cries for warmth and comfort are quelled by the outside world. And now I'm just trying to sound poetic. I believe that nothing forced is beautiful. When words are unwilling, they will make a mess of themselves, not unlike children. We are all children, really. Most adults haven't the self-understanding or control to conduct themselves in a proper manner. All it takes to come to this conclusion is a brief glance at the world around. If I let myself go on with this procrastination, I'll surely go on to talk politics. But my business is love, and a bit of mathematics. So if you the nonexistant will excuse me, I will tame my mind and return to the growingly daunting task that looms before me. <3 Paz