Scatterbrainy

It seems never enough. The stream of thoughts, of words that are dying to come out and find their right path, but I won't let them. Instead I let them swirl around like goldfish in my head, forgetting each and every time that they've already been there.
I really like the thought that confusion creates a more developed brain and new synapses and everything. But lately I'm thinking it might just be a nice concept to think about, and not really true at all. I am always confused, I should be some sort of genius by now.

       

the completely innocent bruises on my body represent a strange kind of stigmata. They stand for something oh-so-different, yet they are in perfect harmony with my state of mind. They are mind-bruises, heart-bruises, soul-bruises. But on the outside. Make me think about this passage that I love by Hélène Cixous, from Stigmata.

"Scar has the advantage over cicatrice of being only one syllable, a hard, scary and blinding note. Unlike scar, stigmata takes a way, removes substance, carves out a place for itself. I want stigmata. I don't want the stigmata to disappear. I am attached to my engravings, to the stings in my flesh and my mental parchment. The literature in me wants to maintain and reanimate traces."

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Desire is usually highly unmotivated
What's so great about you, anyway???