Just finished Story of My Life and I�m restless and heartbroken. In sort of a mind-frenzy, anything to tap out my emotions and lead me�nowhere. No where is now here. Nowhere is the only safe spot in the universe we imagine real.
I am exhausted beyond belief. I am whimsical and desperate. I seek a smooth flow of jagged words and not a vein out of place. Cacophonous symmetry. The outline of lightning in electric words halted in mid-hit. That�s what writing is to me: stopping time and attempting to describe the universe of one moment. Piecing them together sometimes to attempt to convey an experience. In the physical world. Though in writing-mode, the physical world is an abstraction, albeit sometimes a tactile one. But then, can�t the same be said for memory?
And none of this is new and I�m starting to hate where this is going and thinking, �Maybe I just need some excitement in my life�, and detesting the thought because it makes me feel so banal. And I know this is useless but so am I and art mirrors life and I should probably just turn this off and try to row out to dreamland again but the thought of that is just so depressing- like defeat at this moment and I don�t even know why but I know I feel stupid.
And I just want someone to knock me out. Just a clean punch to the brain, the skin needn�t be bruised--and I know that�s impossible since I don�t do drugs or painkillers.
Ah, the masochism of being a writer and forcing yourself to go through life sober�.<-a foot deeper~~~~~~~~~~~~~an inch above->