Just finished Story of My Life and Iím restless and heartbroken. In sort of a mind-frenzy, anything to tap out my emotions and lead meÖnowhere. 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. Thatís 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, canít the same be said for memory?
And none of this is new and Iím starting to hate where this is going and thinking, ďMaybe I just need some excitement in my lifeĒ, 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 donít 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 neednít be bruised--and I know thatís impossible since I donít do drugs or painkillers.
Ah, the masochism of being a writer and forcing yourself to go through life soberÖ.<-a foot deeper~~~~~~~~~~~~~an inch above->