I have a leather jacket addiction, so it seems. Maybe it's not that bad. More unbranded than Lewis Leathers. I am constantly feeling stuck in between redneck piece of white trash and upper east side, Manhattan style wanting of luxury...does this Versace go well with mud and 5th wheel grease?
I am a mystery to myself, the levels vary ever so often...maybe I'm too wordy and think too much about very small details that mean nothing. In the outer world anyway, human interaction. However, paper, pencil, and ink are a different world altogether, which in being this way has helped me. Being able to see the small details, and really look at them, study and understand them, keep them in mind and recreate. Getting up early to write the things out that keep you awake at night. I think everyone should try it, just once. Even before work and you are tired, and its cold and the caffeine is still trying to kick in.
Things that really make no sense, but you write it anyway.
The mystery in why people are how they are, maybe in the date of birth and personal circumstance. Genetics. Science, yet something we still can't name. Beliefs and faith. Or nothing. Humans have the unique ability to be an animal, yet questioning their existence, and have the power of choice in believing what they want. And always projecting it outward, trying to understand everyone else and why they do things when there needs to be a little more inward reflection. For some, it can be a hard thing to do, but I have always found silence not something to be afraid of, but something to embrace. This probably makes no sense.
All I can really do is relate how I feel, for myself only, and there is no way I would want to force someone to feel or believe in a certain way. Why do humans have to keep going around and around in circles...if reincarnation does exist, it is a cruel joke when every time the cycle starts again, we can never learn anything from what happened before, or so it seems. Personal experience does not transmigrate through time and birth, its only in what we publish, on a small or large scale, that continues on but only if it somehow it doesn't become destroyed or completely forgot about, tossed as meaningless or never shared. Stories never told, that need to be told.
Even if you would never consider yourself an author, write something.