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::: second thoughts :::
I get ideas faster than I can reach over and write them down. When creating, and especially writing doesn’t go well, it seems like nothing will ever go well again. And what I do write is bland and lifeless and boring. I don’t have anything beautiful to express. To reach inside and masturbate your soul, is that asking too much? I just keep thinking that I could do it again, and do it better. But, it’s all a fantasy. My opinions really don’t mean anything or matter at all, except to myself. It’s weird that I would ever think otherwise. And still and yet, these thoughts have probably been thought by someone else and so aren’t really mine. If I could just shut up long enough, and listen to myself, I could probably get all the answers I could trust and feel I need. In order to be yourself, you have to lie about who you are. You have to, in essence, change who you are in order to be who you are. And then, are you truly yourself any longer? Nervous tension, exhaustion, frustration. I have obligations. I had visitations. I am a breakdown. I never choose where I’m going, I’m always led there by others. I have never found a place on my own volition. But when I start to feel like that, all I have to do is go to the grocery store at rush hour. There’s nothing left of quality minds. They’re rotted from the inside out and even the greatest of my generation howl like Neanderthals under a bloody paperback moon, heads whipping around on swivels at the prime meat selection or at the pixilated dream. Whenever I see Tiger Lilies, I’m transported back to my very early childhood. And nice polite elevator. Nice polite TV. Nice polite air conditioner. Nice polite scream. And poetry. That is an obscene word, isn’t it?
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