secrets and lies.

So I made notes today about that little book that Im never going to write. I mean seriously, I opened the book and my head was screaming who the fuck are you trying to kid..you're not actually ever going to write it. But I did scribble a page. Thats a start. Its more then I did yesterday.

Can you cure yourself of idealism? Thats been the question of the week. Im one of those foolishly silly people who believes in the power of an idea. And that silliness continues......I think Im supposed to write because it going to help somebody. Just like the way his honesty and his ideas helped me, kept me alive. Whether I could actually be that honest... I dont know. This blog is actually kind of an experiment with honesty. I have a written journal which by an large keeps me sane..and this. . its everything that Im comfortable with someone else knowing. Whats in between.. and how Im supposed to write it without damaging myself, I have absolutely no idea.

I never thought myself to be a good writer, I dont have a particualy way with language or an affinity for prose. Heck I can barely spell but, all this has worked (in my head at least) under the assumption that the one thing I could do was to be honest. About those moments when we'd rather not be or when we're completely isolated... Evidenly not I guess at least not when it involves me. But then again that is the point of writing isnt it.. You get to reveal your deepest darkest secrets, my most horrible thoughts and pass them off as creation..fiction. Something distinct from the person you are everyday. Neither fear nor consequence.

But Im still afraid of everything that these bloody words tell and everything behind them.