I see my life in prose, in bits of description; the streets I approach and walk down and through are met by my curious reaction before I even catch glimpse of them. Relativity is rubbish; I believe it truth; I feel no need at all to define it, but I believe in it. This truth is subject to interpretation, but truth it still is, and our interpretation of such does not void the reality which initially spurned said interpretation. I know that my mind slightly alters the things that surround me, in one way or another, and no one will ever see the world quite as I see it. I catch pieces of promising observation and I feel like a child attempting to catch the wind when her arm is stuck out the car window. Not to say I don't succeed; the mortal hand of the child does indeed capture the wind, and she holds it as long as the car forcefully pushes nothing into her little hand. One might think that she's left empty-handed as the car rolls to a stop, but to the contrary; gushes of wind are the most palpable things I think I've ever held.

I couldn't be happier with the way that I think. My ability to express such is found wanting time and time again, but as for the musings that govern my mood, I am, for the most part, an optimist. Regardless of my mania and my frustrations, the observations I make reveal a world of beauty and of potential.

Everything fits together when the aspects of this world are but devices in my paragraph, and nothing is disagreeable when every occurrence is merely method for my craft. Life is more pleasant when it is simply a thought you have yet to write.