I try to follow the advice that people I respect give to me. And i'm simply mad about honouring my mistakes as hidden intentions. I'll quickly fall and worship anyone who challenges me. I want to be happy, or- I want to be content. Because I don't believe that Something will make everything alright. I think that I should be able to find contentment in being who I am. But, who am I? It's funny because although I ask myself that, I don't care who I am. Because. I can't be anybody else can I? My thoughts are a torture and perhaps this writing will occupy them long enough to give myself a break, make a run for it. I feel very sad when I look around. Somehow even looking up doesn't give me the same thrill it once did. Although looking down serves the blood in the same way; I am changed. Taking flight. I still can't think of it as transport. Not in a mechanical sense. Sometimes when I am walking I will suddenly have cause to look down, it's a long way- I feel giddy- I accuse my legs of failing me for three years... but they are as innocent as I am and because there's no justice... I have to get used to it again, to accept- to be blase- I now have to embrace or reject all the other walkers. I could ask my Dad 'why?' and he might say, 'Because legs is legs.'