Six

I've been writing mainly about impersonal things, things having to do with what I think rather than what I feel. This is the writing that's terrifying. Pssh, writing a novel, easy. Not easy compared to not writing one, but you get the point. Writing your soul is hard, dangerous, honest. There's been a million songs about this, it seems, yet I can't get my heart to dictate the words. Maybe I don't have one. I've often thought I was a sociopath. After I think that, I think I'm being stupid, like right now. You always hurt the ones you love. Some might say, "what a bunch of bull". To those people I say, SHOVE YOUR CONDESCENDING BULLSHIT IN YOUR ASS. A truer sentence has never been spoken or written. I love my wife. I didn't hit her if that's what you're thinking, but I hurt her and I hurt myself. I hurt us. Damaged myself a little further than I did prior to even meeting her. Now we're both damaged. Maybe I wanted her slightly hurt, like myself. Selfish really. Quite stupid. Maybe I bit off more than I could chew. There is nothing in the world that heals the human soul. Some say time. Funny thing. Time is a manmade system. Everything we use for measurement, we've made up. For the sake of argument, tell yourself. No clocks, no watches, cellphones, computers, fax machines, clock towers and sundials. What are you left with? Just nature: the sun, and the moon. A little research will tell you that we imposed measurement of the sun, the moon, etc. So time, doesn't exist, not in the way you think. You age, that's about it, time is what we called measurement for death. They say time heals all wounds. Another truism, but not true, since time doesnt exist. So what heals these wounds that nothing heals? I don't know. I want to say love, but tonight, I can't bring myself to type the word again. It might cheapen it.