2021/7/28 #poetry She said she liked writing about writing. I didn't roll my eyes, or outwardly react, but I cringed. I only write about writing when I can't come up with anything better to express. When I don't have a story to tell. When I'm stuck and only have my current, present experience, of writing, or attempting to, going through my mind. She is supposed to be an expert, she's leading a class after all. She's been doing it for years. Teaching about writing. It makes perfect sense, there's no reason for me to react that way. That's my thing, not hers. If you love writing and reading good writing why wouldn't you like writing about writing and reading about writing? I must be still holding on to my hatred of writing from when I was first learning, and then all through school. I refer to it as torture. My resistance to applying myself due to my inability to learn has left me with inadequate skills to express how tortuous and traumatic it was. Most of school was torture, but writing, english, had an extra sting. No amount of effort would get me results. As if they let me play the videogame with everyone else but gave me a controller with broken wires. My intentions never carried out. Ah, well, that's what you get. Eventually I might use those experiences for someone else's benefit. Perhaps I already do.