Partially evicted Unfettered Writing

I had this mini-scuffle with a close friend on how I wanted to be an odd number while it was insisted upon that I'm even. Turns out I am odd. The year of birth had been mistaken. 3. Delighted overall but mildly bugged that it isn't 7.

There's something about odd, being fashionably a step-out-of-time. But as much as I embrace the need to just 'be' regardless of conformity and convention in a way that doesn't have me stepping on toes as much as possible, confrontation is unavoidable. I crave for even. Equal relationships all round. A sense of justice that isn't black and white. Bollocks indeed!

Oddity = life. The scale will oscillate, tipping over incessantly. The only 'even' hoped for is that it tips over on either side an equal number of times.

I didn't want to write to forget. True. But the equanimity that anonymous offered no longer exists for writing that distracts. It's not about being judged or figured out that has me stuck (all 'writing', anonymous or not, is open to opinion/critique/etc but not the person as a person is more than just their writing). But the fact that I might have an unwilling and oblivious entity subject to repercussions (for lack of a better word) cause of an inanity that I let out that is far removed from them with nothing to read between the lines, has me thinking. It's not an assured but a 'what if' lingers around. Now this space isn't even my own. I think too much. Usually. Now I think more.

But I guess like everything else, space and anonymity are transient by choice or not. Billy Biswas tried. And that's a very 'unfair' parallel indeed! So I shall turn to music that say things I don't know and edit out, as I whistle along like a milk cooker.