When do words go from being conversational, to contemplative to philosophical? When do diary entries become capricious, frivolous, exaggerated or carefully organized ramblings instead of thoughts, feelings, events, activities, just life? When does pretending become being, when does trying to be, become pretending? When the genuinity dissolves, can you really tell? Or does it not matter. I say this because I know; my words are not genuine, that they are imagined masterpieces thought out over and over not because I am thinking, but because I am awaiting an exposure, a display of this ‘secret’ life, these ‘hidden’ writings to the world someday. So what do we really do, because it makes us happy, because it makes us content, when are our words, or our thoughts, yes even those, completely our own? When is it that we present our souls, our very core, in simple plain words, unadulterated and honest, even to ourselves? Because even in the most private moments, one shares with his own thoughts, we are governed by the wish, the will, to be seen. To be heard. To be admired. To be loved and appreciated. To accepted and to be coveted. Yes, coveted.
To be honest, is really much harder than I thought. The words above are mine. And still, I have lied. For I have shown them to you. And this is my excuse. I’m human.
Hi. Clichés and human shortcomings apart here are the beginnings of a linguistic algorithm with no particular rhyme or rhythm, just a few educated guesses I’ve picked up along the way.
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