Words, words, words. Why do I write you? Why does tapping these moulded pieces of plastic in some special order bring me such a sense of achievement? False? Assuredly. Fruitless? Pearhaps.

The last few days have seen a return to self-importance. My trip to Melbourne threw me off course because my friends were telling me to give a shit, and I didn't want to lose them, however I think I took the lesson a little too far. Caring about other people is alright, but I think that caring too much for what they think or how they percieve you is a quick ticket to insecurity.

It seems that when I am self-fulfilled, friendships and relationships are dealt with as an afterthought. A positive, centred me deals with these things easily. He brings joy to those around him as default, without trying. So anyway, yeah, forget about pleasing other people. Do what you think is right. Amuse yourself. Attempting to please others is such a futile exercise. I guess I've known all of this for a while, but somewhere along the line I forgot.

Beatles are pretty rad. Do I want to write freely, or do I want to write in a beautiful manner? These words are written solely for my benefit. On the one hand I suppose this blog is a bucket for my mental regurgitation; on the other I want to improve my writing style, and I'm not sure if simply vomiting my mind into blank white space will achieve this. I suppose it will, however if I want to evolve my technique and style I will have to try some new things. Actually I think my style will evolve naturally. I suppose trying to force it is trying to conform. On the other hand, I would be moulding it only into what I think sounds good, not for other people, so perhaps a conscious evolution is in order. In this style of writing I am just trying to sort out problems, so I can save myself the strain of perfect prose. I'll save it for my public works 8]