World. Internet. God.

This is for you. This is every inch of me, every centimeter of my dying soul- revealed here so publicly, so sporadically. I don’t know what compels my fingers to type these words. Maybe it’s because I don’t know how to get these words out of my mouth. When mouths don’t cooperate, the best place to turn is always the fingers. They don’t stutter. They don’t doubt. They don’t succumb to the cynical eyes around  them. They run, jump, tumble across the keyboard, noting every thought that enters my spinning head. High. Me. Hi. I don’t know why I do the things that I do. I don’t know how I continue getting away with barely trying. I rely on pure talent, yet have none. I waste time, though I don’t have a single minute to spare. I wish I could answer all of your questions. I don’t know what you want from me. Every time I turn around there’s a different microphone inches away from my face, dripping with saliva for my response.