I’m no mystery. Though I try to be. I wear my motives on my sleeves and my disinterest on my actions. ILLFIGHTYOU, drumming, driving, and loving is where you’ll find me when I don’t answer my phone. Any other time I’m frothing between angst and lust and jitters. Inexperienced and arrogant. Lazy to a fault, to a benefit. Consistently uncertain, and inconsistently surprising. I don’t see any point in continuing.
It escapes from me so naturally. Free-flowing and easy-going. I can’t explain why. I mean, I guess my parents always taught me to love first, and to love genuinely. But even they hate somethings. I seem to have no capacity for shutting myself off. And it goes and goes and flows and flows. Out and up into the nostrils of whoever standing over me needs it the most at the time. I never question or doubt. It wouldn’t matter; I don’t have a say. It would leave me regardless. And it never runs out or runs dry. Temporarily or permanently. I’m always gushing, I have no idea where the hell it comes from either.
I never learned to be selfish.