you couldn't make it up

just read ham on rye (of which there was none) by charles bukowski and i now feel fairly liberated and nihilistic. i am now on a bukowski roll and will next read 'hot water music'
i really like henry chinaski and totally empathisse with him.
i think i like his drunk, tough sense of resillient nothingness.
and yet i still am a mum and a daughter and a sister and all the rest and i somehow have to be all that while inside a henry chinaski simmers.

i mean you couldn't make it up the life in which i inhabit.
i won't even write of it here it is too much, too fucked up.
i can't write the truth as the truth does hurt, yes, it hurts and i can't handle it.
and yet perhaps that would be the best thing.
but truth is never the truth it is just the view from one set of eyes.
i am too considerate to consider my view the truth. 
surely each perspective considers it's view the truth?

any way
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