Language is perilous, communication rarely simple. There is the odd time when words tumble fully formed into sentences from my brain to the page and stick. More frequently though the words are elusive, hiding in the darkest recesses of my mind and digging their claws in so that no matter how hard I try I cannot extract them without assistance. Sometimes they slide right off the page and scamper away, shifting from my knowledge waiting for me to turn away from them like cockroaches in the corners. Unsatisfying surrogates clamor to be employed in their place and at times I must surrender simply to continue, that I might forget my dilemma until I come back to fight for my desires once my intentions have been fully conveyed. Each moment of lucid thought expression feels a challenge, and every time one of my words escapes I feel the fissures in my broken mind grow wider. I am unfit to bash my head against another whom I perceive to not feel the same affliction.
The Red Queen's Garden 