Where do I even begin-Prose

Where do I even begin-Prose

Where do i even begin. Where from do i tell. The uglyness of it all delevates me to another misery. The misery of immoral ladden guilt and infringement into one. It henceforth appears to be neither therapeutic purgation or balmy comfort or effective repentance. Just like that. Wasted. Chested. Robbed. Those are the three words.

Pain is not a good word to describe it. In fact, an expository style of telling makes for no good an interpretation. Because words can only illuminate the objective, thus failing to capture the inherant soul of the feeling. Devices such as mataphors may help a little. Albeit alas, I am not the best craftaman for such usage. I attempt however to secretly articulate. For being an open book to friends may not seem like such a good idea.

The dilemma then arises of whether to reveal or conceal. The left hemisphere of the brain no doubt favours the latter option, Being more secularly practical, it is more or less comcerned in a manner which most people think- to portray oneself in the best light possible. The opposite counterpart, of which is more akin to my personality gives impulsive thought and performs a srange habit of wanting other people to either discover or hear from my lips, the darkest, most insidious, gory details. Can this be explained by the science of psychology? The desire not to camoflage the sprit of the inner soul.