I can't remeber what i was. I spend so much time alone in silent observation thinking about completely point less theories that i get lost. humanity disappoints me time and time again. not discluding myself. what does the person with the heart and soul of an artist do with no talent, having all the emotions and feeling wanting to creat them in something but not knowing what. Writer's block, doesn't even begin to cover it all. Whats the point of perfection if it is so incomprehenceable so bryond us that it cannot exist in our mere three dimensions. this idea is the human flaw, the idea of something flawless.

 It is impossible to obtain yet i can't stop reaching for it. And i don't even know what it is.