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nanowrimo 2010


Diary of a Blind Madman

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nanowrimo 2010

I find myself wanting to comfort people. Billy, Corrina, people who bleed their anguish into words that I can comprehend. Words is my medium. I can react, I can respond, I can offer turns of phrase and well-smithed words that might make a difference.

The only real problem is that I know it doesn't make a difference. I'm just bleeding into the same barrel so that it's no longer type A or type O but a jumble of all our suppurated anguish ready for the paint shaker.

People don't really comfort one another in my experience. You hear the words, you value the offer of understanding — for what that's worth — as great or as little as you permit such things to impinge on you. It's no actual comfort, though. It's no help.

Why do I want to muddle about in others' troubles? The desire of mankind to wallow in the black bile of emotion amazes me. I disgust myself when I find it in me. I've got plenty of problems of my own.