I thought I . . . It’s bad manners to talk so much about yourself! And yet, there they are . . two ‘I’s in one phrase, well, something that can barely be called a phrase. The thing is, I assumed that I was eloquent and passionate, to boot. Passionate I very well might be, but I expected to be able to say what it was about. And yet, when I turn to type, I hear myself gurgling someone else’s lines, some poetry I’d read as a kid. And strangely enough, it’s comforting, to know that I have some beautiful thoughts to fall back on. Then it gets frustrating; that I cannot say enough, particularly when material is hardly lacking. I want to be able to say what I feel, to put it into words. People who want to read between the lines, be sure to read me right. I’ve impulses, thoughts, plans. I am bewildered by the beauty around me, and feel inadequate if I can’t tell you how beautiful it all is. I try too hard, I am too hard on myself and others, I need to take a break