Life can never be fully conveyed through writing. Experiences has to be pared down, and little objects focused upon in order for Life to fit into twelve point font. Perhaps in writing, one loses the mundane, murky routines of daily life, and tries to grasp the solid ropes of meaning and action. Its like the cries of "Revolution!" in a dying country.
I realize this because the last few days has been such a tangle of emotion that any attempt to commit it to paper has sounded two-dimensional and shallow. Such a tangle, such a stale mess. The only accurate description I can give is that of my optimistic conviction, that with a few well placed tugs, this tangle of anxiety, hurt, apprehension, boredom, and anger would turn into a tapestry - granted not necessarily a beautiful one.