xxii
I need to get out. The house is too empty. My footsteps seem to echo in the halls. I don't eat unless Fiona drops by to feed me. Friends are saying I look like hell. Never an easy phrase to hear when one is so foolish and vain.
In these days it is a blank sheet of paper that holds the most excitement for me. It holds more promise than the end of a rainbow, more delight than a pretty red waggon on Christmas. It's the one place where dreams can be brought to life. Anything is possible in writing. All of your hopes and fears become tangible, within your grasp. Your visions can surface and be brought to life. Whether you are writing musical scores and notes or just a shopping list, paper provides the means.
I remember distinctly as a young man, the age of 12 holding a piece of paper in my hands and scribbling out my very first crude poem. My writing was nearly illegible at that age, but as I looked down at the words I had taken from my head I realised something. This was where I belonged. This was home. It was here that I could release my demons and allow them to take flight. It was here that I could find my solitude. I must have raped a dozen trees in my lifetime by this manner. Writing until my fingers are calloused. Allowing my perfectionism to get in the way and destroy what I created. Wrinkling them, tearing them, flushing down the loo. Sometimes burning my words to my own delight. How beautiful was that flame. That light dances in my eyes and in my heart. What is this ill tempered infatuation with a simple blank sheet? Some narcissistic nervous disorder that causes man to want to leave some lasted legacy. Some remaining thought for the world to see and to judge. Like smelling up a huge pissing pot so the next dog who comes along will know you've been there. You want something to last in a world where everything dies and everything is breakable. But I digress.
And now comes the inevitable where I speak of betrayal and loss. Being accused of not being able to share my thoughts and emotions verbally, being accused of selfishness. Only to find out that my accusers are guilty of these same "crimes". Feeling only hypocritical in the act itself but I did come to you. You wanted communication and I gave you it. I offered you the moon, the sun and the stars. I offered you me. And the Mirror that reflects my image only has me more lost than sane. I question if it's my soul I can see. I question if I have a soul at all.
Moz's birthday is in three days. I am working on that time machine he requested. eveyone shoud have the opportunity to seduce those they've missed out on. And maybe have a chance to avoid the rogain by early prevention.
side note and this doesn't effect anyone who can reply to this. This journal is now friends only
[[to those who where concerned of my leaving and threatened to beat the shit out of me and drag me back here leaving a blood trail. I am convinced. Please stop the threats. I thought about taking a break but I realise if I do that i will just lose the interest to return. This update is not forced and I'm actually proud that things are flowing for me once again.]]
In these days it is a blank sheet of paper that holds the most excitement for me. It holds more promise than the end of a rainbow, more delight than a pretty red waggon on Christmas. It's the one place where dreams can be brought to life. Anything is possible in writing. All of your hopes and fears become tangible, within your grasp. Your visions can surface and be brought to life. Whether you are writing musical scores and notes or just a shopping list, paper provides the means.
I remember distinctly as a young man, the age of 12 holding a piece of paper in my hands and scribbling out my very first crude poem. My writing was nearly illegible at that age, but as I looked down at the words I had taken from my head I realised something. This was where I belonged. This was home. It was here that I could release my demons and allow them to take flight. It was here that I could find my solitude. I must have raped a dozen trees in my lifetime by this manner. Writing until my fingers are calloused. Allowing my perfectionism to get in the way and destroy what I created. Wrinkling them, tearing them, flushing down the loo. Sometimes burning my words to my own delight. How beautiful was that flame. That light dances in my eyes and in my heart. What is this ill tempered infatuation with a simple blank sheet? Some narcissistic nervous disorder that causes man to want to leave some lasted legacy. Some remaining thought for the world to see and to judge. Like smelling up a huge pissing pot so the next dog who comes along will know you've been there. You want something to last in a world where everything dies and everything is breakable. But I digress.
And now comes the inevitable where I speak of betrayal and loss. Being accused of not being able to share my thoughts and emotions verbally, being accused of selfishness. Only to find out that my accusers are guilty of these same "crimes". Feeling only hypocritical in the act itself but I did come to you. You wanted communication and I gave you it. I offered you the moon, the sun and the stars. I offered you me. And the Mirror that reflects my image only has me more lost than sane. I question if it's my soul I can see. I question if I have a soul at all.
Moz's birthday is in three days. I am working on that time machine he requested. eveyone shoud have the opportunity to seduce those they've missed out on. And maybe have a chance to avoid the rogain by early prevention.
side note and this doesn't effect anyone who can reply to this. This journal is now friends only
[[to those who where concerned of my leaving and threatened to beat the shit out of me and drag me back here leaving a blood trail. I am convinced. Please stop the threats. I thought about taking a break but I realise if I do that i will just lose the interest to return. This update is not forced and I'm actually proud that things are flowing for me once again.]]