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Pointless Rambling #3
Here we go again. I am on a mission to rediscover the creativity that I have somehow banished and buried within myself. One day I will come back from wherever it is that I have been. I can feel it happening already. I can feel myself peeking out, and I will slowly emerge as long as my own shadow does not scare me. My mother asked me what I had planned today, and I told her that I thought I might pick my butt later. I thought I might paint my nails, but I fear that it would make me become painted as well, and all I will be is an image of colors and chemicals, hiding what lies beneath the paint. Perhaps clear nail polish is in order. Can’t tell as much when I fuck up that way. I had a dream that I seduced a heart broken man into taking me from a bar and getting a motel room. After he fell asleep I emptied his wallet and ran. I ran from the truth of that situation, I ran from the person I was at that moment, and when I got home, I was surprised that it was home. It seemed nothing more than a collaboration of images that had somehow collected in front of me. It seemed as if I had broken into my parents’ house, not as if I really lived there. Was it really a dream? You tell me. I’d like to believe that it was, and I know that the only way I can carry on with a lie is to believe it myself. Someday the lies will become reality, and perhaps I will not even remember who I used to be, but that isn’t going to happen, or at least it seems like it won’t, and part of me is disappointed, but the other part of me, the good part, is grateful. I will be able to hold my head high and have there be truth to it. I guess that’s all I ever wanted, but if you believe that, you really are naïve.
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Pointless Rambling #4
Since I cannot seem to begin a poem worth finishing, I have decided that it is time for yet another pointless rambling. What is it that I am really feeling now? What is at the surface? Whatever it is, I know that it is the one thing I will be able to successfully write about. My fear is that it is nothing. What if there is nothing on my mind except for the empty space that consumes me? How can I write about space? If I was depressed, I could, but I am not depressed, and I am not very happy either. What I need to do is capture the fantasy world. I must capture the imagination. If it was up to me, I would live in that world, but as it is, I must spend half of my time in reality, so I must find a way to bring a portrayal of one world into another. Sounds simple enough.
I am quite aware that you are a black hearted hypocrite, but the latest accusation has my curiosity turned. Would you do something deliberately that would completely turn someone’s emotions inside out? Probably. God. I’m not even going to bother thinking about this now.
I am so poor, and I don’t want to work. That’s life. Poor me. Blah, blah, blah. Shitty. I always wish there was an easier, softer way, but there never is, unless I resort to whoring myself out, or stealing, and though I am not sure what I believe in, I do not want to burn in hell, just in case.
Now I am waiting for him to arrive, and looking forward to it. I feel very odd. A bit of anxiety is consuming me, but I am lacking the words to express anything that I am feeling. I feel as though I could write about anything, yet I seem to be able to write about nothing. I need a streak of inspiration, or complete madness. I’m sure that would do it. This is the type of thinking that makes me fantasize about being a drug addict.
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Pointless Rambling #5
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This city is like something someone cut out and pasted on the wrong part of the page. Or maybe like the set of an old movie that no one bothered to go and see. There's nothing much worth going to see anymore. Everything is abvout teenagers having sex, or trying to have sex. They all act like it's so much fun, but when I was a teenager, it wasn't fun. Fun was never really the point. It was about profiding evidence that I was not afriad. I AM NOT AFRAID OF SEX. I am not afraid of men.
I thought I might build myself a little house--real little like a dog house, just enough room for myself and my body. I would lay face up in this house in my back yard, thinking of nothing and noone but myself, as if that's much different from now. All I know is that I need to get out of this house. I need to be somewhere, I need to be everywhere. Something in this house stifles me...but I stay here because it's my warped little sheild, and it shelters me fron the outsside world, and people who naturally will "never understand' little whining bitch I am. I AM NOT AFRAID OF PEOPLE. I'm just afriad of being one.
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