This is why we write

Inner life is one of those things.  A thing that's so all-encompassingly important, yet you can't touch it, you can't taste it and you only see flashes of it in the drawn-out silhouettes of your dreams.

We can measure brain waves.  Oh yes we can.  But it doesn't mean a damn things, it is a paint-by-numbers approximation that, yes, red goes here, sometimes, in the right conditions.  It's not the magnetism of our blood.  It's not the radiation in our veins it is painfully unreal.

I guess what I mean is you can think whatever the fuck you want and it's okay.  Because on the outside, you are still white boy age twenty six smiling surely.  I mean, if you're me.  If you're not me, the overlay might get a bit more problematic.  Our faces are like burqa, honestly.  More than that, because sometimes you can't even see our eyes.

It is 2 AM and I can't sleep, my head like an inflatable mattress, it's never comfortable too full.  I need to open the valve and catharse.  Is that a word? Verb form of catharsis? The internet is no help here and I'll be damned if I turn to the OED.  Bootylicious? Really? I mean, I know no one uses you anymore, but this is not the way to get attention.  It's like the loser kid at school smoking pot to be cool.  Then going on to major in English and History and eventually go to Hopkins.

See what I did there?

Can't let an entry go without insulting myself.

(This inanity brought to you by David Oshinsky, who recommended that everyone write 300 words a day.  Don't worry.  This kind of can-do inspiration usually wears off after a couple days.)