They say that I write with meaning. What would they think of me if they could crawl inside my head and infiltrate its membrane... pervading every layer? What if they fastened onto every deliciously provocative thought that runs around in a cyclical pattern? They would stand outside the perimeter and dub me artless and depraved... They would scoff at me for noticing their insecurities. They say I'm intense. That my words are thought provoking. What would they think if they could decipher my words? Would they still think I have depth? Would they hate me for not securing my emotions behind an impermeable glass case... only to be broken in case of EMERGENCY? I write with angst, because ignorant bliss is overrated... because phonetic copulation will never lend credence to the core of me. I write merely to remain obscure and aberrant.