This is me before I sleep

Lit From Inside's picture

Tired... Blaah. I hate justice class. Justice in *stupid* America. Yuckers. Stupid Umbridge lady thinks she knows something about justice in an unjust country with a nasty president. Don't like her. Don't like justice in america, in which we don't even touch on gay rights. That says something. Civil rights but not gay rights, hmmm...
I just read about a man (a pianist) who was found washed up on the Isle of Sheppey. He doesn't speak, to anyone, and seems to be afraid of people, but he loves his piano, is happy when he plays it.
I want to meet him, I want to know his story. How did he get here? Why doesn't he speak? I want to help him, but I don't know how. He intrigues me. So does Buddha's birthday. Don't know why. Random bits of information that fall into my hands and make me want to shiver (excitment and wonder).
To be a writer is...what? I write, am I a writer. There I go again! All these labels. I, ms. "I don't believe in labels" am going around labeling every damn thing. I need to train myself not to use labels on myself or others. I keep my mind open, but limit people with my words. Learning not to be a hypocrit,