strangers never strange

it's the observation that is key, but the observation that eats me. the notes and notations won't do anything for me.  the pages go on and on and they've existed, before me.  on one hand it feels so good, my other hand is rotten like wood.  flaking away into dust.  it's probably the dust that gets caught in my eye and where again i flush it out.  a sort of dignity i never had a hold of, that observation i've never been without.  

i don't know myself.  but what the fuck does that mean anyway?  to know my TRUTH? haha, wtf?  I sorta laugh at aimless attempts self-awareness then realized I am shamelessly, ridiculously doing exactly that.  I don't know WHY i am trying to be so aware and in control all the time.  time, my obsessions, death... those piece of shit parts of my life i'll never be able to do anything about, shouldn't wash me clean and fill my lungs. 

they should be drowned or something.  drowned by creation or something.  You know?  I feel like it could work the same way as clogged pores do- i just have them in my insides.  i'll make a headband, then it will become the headband.

My old english teacher always used to say I used the worst "to be" verbs in my writing.  apparently, that's all I could think of writing with "will be", "we were".  i never bothered to come up with something better, even when she would ask me to be creative.  i would always choose creative subject matter [often terrible narritives] and write in boring "to be" verbs.

are am is was were be became become..... all "to be" verbs.