(no subject)
The small alarm clock, resembling something from the nineteen fifties, ticks above my head. The ticks bounce from one ear to the other like a pendulum that I cannot make stop. My body is pinned to the soft feel of a beige carpet within the enclosure of four white walls, with not the slightest ray of light shinging in. It's still and I am unable to move. This is how I end days.
Somewhere inside my head, it is limp, intoxicated, and drained of any form of balance that could have once existed. I am addicted to my choice of poison, alcohol. It lies to me after the smalls sips of pleasure fade into large gulps of persistent addiction and need. An oral fixation to the glass and down the espophogus it flows into my shallow pit of a stomach. I am self medicating, self abusing, and living in denial. I have been laying on the floor for hours without knowing someone is looking down at me with a face, a face like a canvas painting displaying shame. He's like the paintings I make, but in real life. Or has one of my works of art come to life to show me how pathetic I have become and why it is that I created the paintings in the first place?
I am unable to make anything anymore. My world is built upon the destiny of creation. Thats sort of my idea of god, yet I do not believe in a god. The inability to create makes me feel like I am nothing, I might as well be dead if I cannot make anything. Creation for me is found in painting, music and writing.
Some of us are never meant to change. Some of us do not evolve and some of us are sad and do not know why and never will. I fit this life form, if one would really care to use the word life there. I am in a fog, walking along the damp sand of a cold night's beach. Waves do not crash here and I unintentionally but without care, crush the sculls of dead sea creatures and birds as I walk along this vaccant beach. Its dark but I know far off there is another time zone with light showing but I am unable to build anything to get there, nor can anyone see me from above to rescue me. The stench of dead fish is now comforting, maybe I will just stay here.
I ponder over writings, they start out small but the words grow increasingly aggitated. If they were alive they would scream. They grow bigger and disorderly on the paper in jagged red letters as a result of this blockage. They know they will never be used and they know they are shit.
I am shit
You are shit
Everything is shit
That is it
Somewhere inside my head, it is limp, intoxicated, and drained of any form of balance that could have once existed. I am addicted to my choice of poison, alcohol. It lies to me after the smalls sips of pleasure fade into large gulps of persistent addiction and need. An oral fixation to the glass and down the espophogus it flows into my shallow pit of a stomach. I am self medicating, self abusing, and living in denial. I have been laying on the floor for hours without knowing someone is looking down at me with a face, a face like a canvas painting displaying shame. He's like the paintings I make, but in real life. Or has one of my works of art come to life to show me how pathetic I have become and why it is that I created the paintings in the first place?
I am unable to make anything anymore. My world is built upon the destiny of creation. Thats sort of my idea of god, yet I do not believe in a god. The inability to create makes me feel like I am nothing, I might as well be dead if I cannot make anything. Creation for me is found in painting, music and writing.
Some of us are never meant to change. Some of us do not evolve and some of us are sad and do not know why and never will. I fit this life form, if one would really care to use the word life there. I am in a fog, walking along the damp sand of a cold night's beach. Waves do not crash here and I unintentionally but without care, crush the sculls of dead sea creatures and birds as I walk along this vaccant beach. Its dark but I know far off there is another time zone with light showing but I am unable to build anything to get there, nor can anyone see me from above to rescue me. The stench of dead fish is now comforting, maybe I will just stay here.
I ponder over writings, they start out small but the words grow increasingly aggitated. If they were alive they would scream. They grow bigger and disorderly on the paper in jagged red letters as a result of this blockage. They know they will never be used and they know they are shit.
I am shit
You are shit
Everything is shit
That is it