if you want me, you can find me left of center off of the strip...
I think the meds have done something to my head.
Ha, ha, ha. Give the girl a prize.
But I really do think something went wonky here.
It’s my fingertips. They’re too content to type web addresses and instant messages and passwords for social networking sites.
It’s my eyes. They’re too content to scan hilarious images and blocks of sarcastic reviews on bad literature and worse movies.
It’s my head. It’s too content to float thoughts through my skull concerning makeup and obscure trivia and petty irritations.
I stay up all night, except instead of clattering out pages and pages of paranoia-riddled and insomnia-sharpened text, I page through webcomic archives and read macabre news articles about death by industrial equipment and the separation of conjoined twins. I can’t remember what day it is and the passing of the hours seems so damned insignificant I can’t remember why I ever cared.
I wish I felt the way I felt when words flew from my fingers like blood from torn arteries. I miss the splatter and the gush and the surge of character and plot and world that only my head contained until I locked it all within the pages. I can’t remember how it felt to have the story prickle me from the inside, throw glass in my veins and watch me squirm until I gave in and let it out.
I’m too damned complacent with sitting at this infernal machine, content to pretend I matter when I dole out advice to the lost and mostly hopeless when all they really want is someone to complain in front of. I don’t notice anymore how long it’s been since I put pen to paper or opened a new file and watched that cursor blink at the top of a blank page.
I can still write, of course.
But I don’t NEED to.
And it scares me.
Ha, ha, ha. Give the girl a prize.
But I really do think something went wonky here.
It’s my fingertips. They’re too content to type web addresses and instant messages and passwords for social networking sites.
It’s my eyes. They’re too content to scan hilarious images and blocks of sarcastic reviews on bad literature and worse movies.
It’s my head. It’s too content to float thoughts through my skull concerning makeup and obscure trivia and petty irritations.
I stay up all night, except instead of clattering out pages and pages of paranoia-riddled and insomnia-sharpened text, I page through webcomic archives and read macabre news articles about death by industrial equipment and the separation of conjoined twins. I can’t remember what day it is and the passing of the hours seems so damned insignificant I can’t remember why I ever cared.
I wish I felt the way I felt when words flew from my fingers like blood from torn arteries. I miss the splatter and the gush and the surge of character and plot and world that only my head contained until I locked it all within the pages. I can’t remember how it felt to have the story prickle me from the inside, throw glass in my veins and watch me squirm until I gave in and let it out.
I’m too damned complacent with sitting at this infernal machine, content to pretend I matter when I dole out advice to the lost and mostly hopeless when all they really want is someone to complain in front of. I don’t notice anymore how long it’s been since I put pen to paper or opened a new file and watched that cursor blink at the top of a blank page.
I can still write, of course.
But I don’t NEED to.
And it scares me.