Does It Make Me Crazy?

Can anybody tell me why in the hell anybody would write with Capital Letters In A Text Message Like This? What´s the deal with that one???

Stories to be told, Stories to be made of Gold

He Said, oh my god, you have so many stories, you really have to write them down. Do you know how many writers are out there who are dying to have stories in their background like you do?

That's indeed very sad I thought. How about you just go out there and live??

He Said, write it down now, it wears off with the years. The details won't be so vivid anymore. Don't worry about publishing or anything, just write it and the rest will fall into place somehow. LA Weekly would pay you for your Russia-US comparison story.

I went home, smiled at the table fortress my parking lot homeless dude built and got pissed off at my housemate who just keeps on gloriously ignoring my Majesty Self.

Things went well today. As if to give me an idea how else life could be like...

Oh well. Good night...Maybe my stories need to be told, maybe they are not made of gold.

Actually, a lot of them are made of dirt. From under my eternally French-reverse-manicure dirty nails.

face it

time is fucking rushing.
and I am gushing about life and love.
fuck.
you know, for some reason there is something iside of me that turns off when ambition kicks in.
there is nothing i can do about it. it happens regularly since 9th grade.
there was a pivotal moment when I jumped too high and too far and woke up to someone crying, only moments later realizing that it was me. a stranger's face was hovering above me like a pale full moon, with glasses on, waving his hands in front of my eyes and yelling something in a foreign language, or so it seemed, reaching my mind through a long and winding tunnel.
after a while I realized that there was a half round of faces around me, frozen in time and expression and there was the taste of yummy blood on my lips and tongue.
yeah, I had jumped too high and too far and knocked myself out with my own knees, crushed into my own face, bouncing from the backstage wall.
it was only days before our circus performance and of course I fucking hated the world. I even wasn't allowed to read and that's how I started drawing portraits. Armed with some paper and pencils and a mirror and my face.

And my dreams.
My dreams kicked in like a big new reality. They were more vivid and more alive than my day reality and I couldn't wait to go to sleep every day. The otherwise loud and exuberant emeralda turned to an introverted teenager. People thought I was sick. Later on I changed back to the middle I guess but things have never been the same ever since.

I feel as if my enthusiasm and determination to save this world from all the evil and peril burnt out in my early years. All the energy and conviction I displayed and put into projects and organizations.
All kind of gone.
And time is rushing.
And I can't bare the thought of ambition anymore.
people say, whoa, this and that, so great.
you name it, I blame it. gone, gone, gone. sure, I am jealous of all those great people, sometimes.
but in the end, what are they trying to be so great for? are they trying? or is it...that I...?
Is it the fear of failure?
Of crushing my face again?
Or is it merely a general disinterest in achievement?
A wallowing in pettiness?
Or is it maybe that I secretly strive to choose the mediocre over the excelling?
I mean I know that I would choose Koko again over any fucking celebrity of any realm.

Koko's face was swollen, beaten up and her smile put all the misery and all the ugliness and all the miserable drunkness away. Koko cried in my arms and witnessing that was more worth to my twisted altruistic mind than anything else i can think of right now. Gosh, people have different ways of getting what they want, right?