Fractured

I'm so confused.  I'm so confusing.  Things, by extension, become more confusing.  I've been eating a lot of sweets.  They taste good.  What is that taste?  Is it real?  How do we manufacture it?  I mean, there's smoke flavor.  How do we make that?  And better yet, why does it sound lovely?  As lovely as a red, red rose?  I'm partial to yellow roses.  They seem much rarer.  But they also signify mere friendship.  I want something a little deeper.  But who cares about tradition?  I can create my own meanings.  But it doesn't always work like that.  It never works like that.  The decisions of others are based on those made by their peers before them.  And so are mine.  What are my actions?  What are my choices?  What is life?  George Harrison came up with that last question.  It's not mine.  I think I know what life is.  A collection of anecdotes.  If it were put into narrative form, that is.  It'd be a lot easier I think if it were a narrative.  I like reading.  Except when I'm reading stream of consciousness.  Which is what this is.  I feel like Virginia Woolf.  And I hate Virginia Woolf.  Though I sure like her writing style.  But I can't be both, right?  But I am.  Just like in relationships.  So how can I be so against loving both sides societally?  Wow, that's an interesting thought.  But things don't go like that.  Just because we find one matching example, I can find a bunch more that refute it.  And then you can find even more that refute my refutions.  If that's even a word.  I'm not going to look it up.  I'm too manly for that.  And speaking of manly, I wish I were Ernest Hemingway.  Except for the liking men part.  But he was just so raw.  And concise.  He took no nonsense from anyone.  I don't want nonsense.  But then I create it.  Brutal.  I remember when I tried to emulate Hemingway once. I did a little ditty channeling the masculinity that Hemingway exudes.  It was about hunting of course.  I'm not sure how well I did capturing the man.  But it sure was fun to write.  He made life seem simple.  Perhaps it was for him.  It's a mindset.  Perspective.  And when that perspective gets screwed up, just punch it in the face and chew some tobacco.  Truer words have never been spoken.  This is how I feel.  Different thoughts running all over the place.  Evocative.