then when I was able to figure out what was so different that I had delt with the problem. The idea was that I would write as many of these silly books as I can. And then hope that they would sell. But really. Who knows what it is that would happen. The ways that the world works. I am surprised that even this happened. The thoughts that I had thought. The words that I did write. What else would do that. How else would such a thing happen. When I was here there was something that was not made before this. The ways of the world have always been changing.
The words here are not what I thought that they would be. The words here, I swear are ment to be this way. The way that I spell them. I chose that special. The way the grammar syntax errors blare up at those enforces of such standards. The words that I write are not meant to be written by humans, but to be searched out by engines. Perhaps then It would help those that need the words, trust me there are more words than there are pages on the internet. As far as I know that is.
The words that I am attempting to write here. And the owrds that I love. The writing of such words. The words that I write. How many words should I write? I ask myself this. I think it is not how many words that you write. But how you write the words and what they mean to you. That is what matters when you see them here or there.
Yeah it does not always make sense. It might not always look well. But then. What does. There is only so many different people out there. I am glad that I am able to say that I stand on my own. But really. Who knows what it is that could happen. What would happen here. When I do not write like other people. That manifesto though the horrors that it has filled my mind with. I wonder what it would be like, if I had not read such words. The words that I fear and are afraid to even mutter.
The words that I write are here. And they are meant to be in this way. That is what I know. And that is what it is that keeps me alive. At least that is the plan. The hope. That we all do have when deciding to become a writer.
Sometimes it is not what we think we are. Sometimes, it is just how, we are. Some people think about it. Some do not. But really. What matters is that we keep at it. Keep improving. Even it not by much. It is still something that we improved upon. Worked on. Is that not why we write. There are no books I wanted to read. So I thought that I would make some to help bring about such words. To make books. That is my dream artisinal job at least. To bind them. And to hand write in their pages. It would be handmade journals that I would want to create. The words here. Seem shallow compared to that written by the hand. And yet that is what will keep me hungry. Not fed. But that is just how I feel about the situation.
There are many different ways that I could repeat the same thing. And yet how is that possible. Its like explaining art to blind people!
That is how I see things sometimes. That which I write here. And the pains that I feel. Why is it that I am here. When I wanted to leave for so long. I am glad that I stayed here though. For I would not be writing this now had I done anything else. And it feels good to be doing my job again.
Sometime. These words that I write. There are many versions. Many people would want to, could want to. Make it theirs. I dont mind. For I am under the delusion that I can make more. Yet I know that too, only I can make so much. And no more. That is part of the curse it is to write. We only get so much time to write. And if we dont get started then nothing would get done. I am glad that I amhere and looking for the words again. It makes me feel better when I start to t hink like this again.