Is it still a story if there are no characters and nothing happens?
I am worried about being found out. My morality is pretty stable… I think at least… but it is hard to tell. What is true, however, oftentimes what I believe does not sync well with what I do: hold my tongue, hide the drugs, say, “sorry,” when I’m not, wear clothes, wear clothes that fit, don’t mention the drugs.
People want simple answers to things. They want you to say you are trying to get a full time, stable job, because that makes sense to them. It’s not laziness …well partly it is, but sometimes it’s needing to just be left alone to enjoy life. Life. Real life, and not watching that idiot box or looking at your expensive haircut or reading about the love life of actors and actresses, but the dirty stuff: the mud-stained naked bodies, the other worldly, chemically-enhanced orgasms, the pitch of a soft violin reverberating in your chest, calloused hands, mutts for pillows; the perfect blend of orange and red splattered on a whitewashed wall. This isn’t just “kid stuff;” this isn’t a waste of time; this is everything.
How often is there a free man? How often does a man really live? Blood surely flows through his veins, but his happiness sits at the bar waiting for its last call drink. I’m sure very little will come of this realization. Happiness that sits as thus described is still happiness, and can not be easily distinguished by most from happiness that flies. Thus, it would be hard to convince them that there is far more out there to discover and see beyond that which they “know” to be “true.”
People want simple answers to things. They want you to say you are trying to get a full time, stable job, because that makes sense to them. It’s not laziness …well partly it is, but sometimes it’s needing to just be left alone to enjoy life. Life. Real life, and not watching that idiot box or looking at your expensive haircut or reading about the love life of actors and actresses, but the dirty stuff: the mud-stained naked bodies, the other worldly, chemically-enhanced orgasms, the pitch of a soft violin reverberating in your chest, calloused hands, mutts for pillows; the perfect blend of orange and red splattered on a whitewashed wall. This isn’t just “kid stuff;” this isn’t a waste of time; this is everything.
How often is there a free man? How often does a man really live? Blood surely flows through his veins, but his happiness sits at the bar waiting for its last call drink. I’m sure very little will come of this realization. Happiness that sits as thus described is still happiness, and can not be easily distinguished by most from happiness that flies. Thus, it would be hard to convince them that there is far more out there to discover and see beyond that which they “know” to be “true.”