It seems like when I have no music to listen to, nothing amazing to drown in over and over again, I am inspired to create my own source of bliss, through the medium of words. Yet when I acquire new music to listen to, this strange seemingly organized but inevitably random sequence of noises, all thoughts turn away, and no part of me has the desire to create anything. Why create, when I'm already in bliss? Yet somehow in spite of this drowning process I'm already going through, I've become inspired to write something new. Let us see if it is anything good.

"I will not take the coward's way out"

Brave words, fueled by a heart tired of this bitter bickering and pointless judging. And yet she was able to bear through it all, and I came out of it, ashamed, yet brimming with knowledge anew. Perhaps to give up an argument is not the coward's way out. Perhaps giving up a grudge is not the coward's way out. And perhaps to love her as she stands and to accept her and put aside all of the superficiality and the need to be loved and truly love her is to avoid the coward's way out. And so I will not take the coward's way out, no matter how hard it may seem, because to take it, in the end, is much harder than avoiding it really seems.

I become what I read, and I become what I hear. Yet somehow I'm supposed to stay fair and impartial. Yet somehow I feel like I'm doing it. Am I just fooling myself?