Burning Writer's Block.
Consequences. They're funny things. You tend not to think about them very much, most of the time. Really, it's better not to. Who would want to keep thinking about what happens to you far down the line because of such-and-such action? No one does. It doesn't stink well. Better to throw it aside and forge ahead into the bright beautiful pasture of tomorrow. Nevermind what hell may come your way. It's all surmountable anyway. All just ant hills in the foot of life.
Nevermind what happens when they do come barreling down at you. Then it's a tragedy. Life's greatest mystery. Bad luck. Folly. Bollocks.
Concentrate on the here and now. Move around the currently. Shove onto your shoulder what needs to come with you. Some say get rid of what you don't. Others think that what you've got to remember the old roads by makes you who you are.
Do what thou wilt. Work it up into whatever bluster you need. Manufacture the excuses. Translate needs from desires. Recriprocate nothing and congragulate none. Receive and do not give. Carve only what you need for yourself. Break your own barriers and leave yourself a corpse. Death throws are for the weak. Corrupt yourself one day at a time. Remove your chances for today.
My right hand is a ball of orange flame right now. I'm focusing it and spiking it directly into my keyboard. moving my fingers and strings of power like lightning rods of communication. Forces of fire and grounds of gut. Solar Plexus Flare. The kind of fire that is aspired to and imitated by many. Electronic voodoo.
Theres witches in my kitchen. They send magic and mystery out in droves. They think they command it themselves tonight, not knowing that we are the conductor. The lightning rod. It goes where we want it. It is all being focused right here. Right now. Our mechanic shamanism.
I could punch suns right now. I catch myself speaking aloud. Maybe it's because of the sun on my hand. Depth and greatness of colour. Of power. Few times is it this strong.
And then it's gone. The scissors cut. Destroyed. Ripped from my coil by conversation. Hate conversation. It belies nothing but bullshit. Lies. Excuses. Failure. Vocalization removes the possibility for typing. The connection is cut and my arm is left a stub. Nowhere to go. The witches are just yammering. Procrastrinating. Flailing about like wretches. The fates squealing through time because yet again they have destraught themselves. Disrupted what the saw. Ended the process.
But maybe not. The fire stays, even though their's no more fuel for it. A stub of energy, having difficulty dissipating. Illiteration now. Great. The worst trick in the book. Technicque talk. Even worse. Death of a salesman-hopeful-writer. Introspection-to-death.
Goddamn I hate when my shoulder hurts like this.
---
Give me my wings!
((Sometimes they don't have to have context. Or make that much sense. Or even be that fictional. Something to get the fires burning again.))
((In other news, I recovered my wallet.))
Nevermind what happens when they do come barreling down at you. Then it's a tragedy. Life's greatest mystery. Bad luck. Folly. Bollocks.
Concentrate on the here and now. Move around the currently. Shove onto your shoulder what needs to come with you. Some say get rid of what you don't. Others think that what you've got to remember the old roads by makes you who you are.
Do what thou wilt. Work it up into whatever bluster you need. Manufacture the excuses. Translate needs from desires. Recriprocate nothing and congragulate none. Receive and do not give. Carve only what you need for yourself. Break your own barriers and leave yourself a corpse. Death throws are for the weak. Corrupt yourself one day at a time. Remove your chances for today.
My right hand is a ball of orange flame right now. I'm focusing it and spiking it directly into my keyboard. moving my fingers and strings of power like lightning rods of communication. Forces of fire and grounds of gut. Solar Plexus Flare. The kind of fire that is aspired to and imitated by many. Electronic voodoo.
Theres witches in my kitchen. They send magic and mystery out in droves. They think they command it themselves tonight, not knowing that we are the conductor. The lightning rod. It goes where we want it. It is all being focused right here. Right now. Our mechanic shamanism.
I could punch suns right now. I catch myself speaking aloud. Maybe it's because of the sun on my hand. Depth and greatness of colour. Of power. Few times is it this strong.
And then it's gone. The scissors cut. Destroyed. Ripped from my coil by conversation. Hate conversation. It belies nothing but bullshit. Lies. Excuses. Failure. Vocalization removes the possibility for typing. The connection is cut and my arm is left a stub. Nowhere to go. The witches are just yammering. Procrastrinating. Flailing about like wretches. The fates squealing through time because yet again they have destraught themselves. Disrupted what the saw. Ended the process.
But maybe not. The fire stays, even though their's no more fuel for it. A stub of energy, having difficulty dissipating. Illiteration now. Great. The worst trick in the book. Technicque talk. Even worse. Death of a salesman-hopeful-writer. Introspection-to-death.
Goddamn I hate when my shoulder hurts like this.
---
Give me my wings!
((Sometimes they don't have to have context. Or make that much sense. Or even be that fictional. Something to get the fires burning again.))
((In other news, I recovered my wallet.))