The Eyes Of A Spectator

I entitled this one "I Don't Even Know."

free writing is whatever you want it to be. i'm staring at the ceiling and typing ridiculously phrases that i don't even understand myself. i look at my light bulb and i think to myself, what kind of pizza is good pizza? is it the one that's sad all the time or the one that';s hot and red and made with love, then I think to myself, why is there such a misunderstanding of the phrase "i love you". i feel so odd at certain times like a huge ball of fear of my own life shatters my mind into little bits. and those little bits can only be put together by my very own hands. my hands are in the sky and my body is on the floor. desperation is the shadow and my body has no light. i am consumed and i cannot do anything.

how's that for free writing.