Failure

I write in much too simple terms. I write around the real issue until there is a moat to be filled with whatever useless information I can drum up. The real issue is... I am inadequately prepared for real life and it will always be a handicap to me. My mind is immature and has trouble adjusting to what is real. It cannot fathom the solid, the immovable. It only loves fluff. My mind would rather not hear your real thoughts, for they are far too disturbing. They make it contemplate its own existence, which cannot be had! I am a bad writer; I set out to write about words, and I end up writing about thoughts. This leads me to think that maybe the two are interconnected, somehow. Could we have words without thoughts and thoughts without words? I want to read Fahrenheit 451 and I enjoyed this afternoon immensely. That is all.