I wish there was a "turn off" switch for my mind's tendency to fabricate. I know it is all in my head. But that doesn't make any difference, because when you "know" something, it too is in your head.

A fucking battlefield of ideas. That is what my mind is, and each and every one of them, the good and the bad, has the capability to leave me bloody and wounded.

I form connections. Connections based only upon making educated guesses. But even in making an educated guess, a problem arises. Whatever my education has been in my life, it has led me to make those specific educated guesses. Someone can take the same raw data, and produce entirely different results. BUT YET AGAIN, knowing this makes no difference, as "knowing" is also influenced by "education", I am basically caught in a loop of never truly knowing, because I fill in blanks preemptively.

Take the scene in American Beauty, where Kevin Spacey's character is in need of some Marijuana. He calls his neighbor's son, who makes a visit and prepares said drug. The provider's father is watching him from across the street, and his view is obscured. Dealing with his own homosexual-type issues, he mistakes his son preparing a drug, as performing a sex act with Kevin Spacey's character.

And this small error has drastic repercussions.

I suffer from this problem. I read far too deeply into something, without acknowledging the fact that I simply do not know the details. And in this case, it was just that: reading.

Because I read a choice pair of sentences from someone's online journal, which in itself is a maelstrom waiting to erupt, I have developed an entire scenario in my head. I've played it out over and over, nothing good results. But my problem does not end there. I start to dig. And in digging I uncover more skeletons. Skeletons which may be coincidental in their appearance before my eyes, but they are there none the less.

But I really should listen to myself. I call them skeletons and they might as well be, there is no meat on a flimsy frame of dishonesty and secrets that I've built from what is essentially nothing but words that I cannot possibly comprehend because I am not the one that wrote them.

But I am the one that read them. And I wish I didn't.

I continue to build this straw-man argument, and I'm arguing only with myself. And sadly, whether I am wrong or right, nothing good can from my wanting to know.

If left alone, it will fester.

If pursued, it will rupture.

I am already wounded.