(no subject)
There was a certain chill, unexpected, if only deserved, as I stood with a mild fever and choking tonsil. There was a certain air, a madness you could say, that bore down through my mind as I watched the light flicker, twitch, there above the Music and Movies notice. "Consume" the world said, but all I could focus on was the awkward twitch, the bulging attraction, the big titted glow for my fly eyes.
It is time to rekindle my flame, my life, my fucking erosion that has ceased to be. The romantic needs his kiss. The martyr needs his pain. The writer needs his stories, his tales, his frolics against juxtaposed events. I need to find the satire in this existence . . . but to do that I would have to take this fiction seriously. Who wants to do that? It is a return to normality, with a short stop over in insanity. I feel like there are so many loose ends.
I can see the faults in what I once was, as I pass under another sign (this one notifying my arrival in the Romance section), but I see little of value in what I have become. The light is still flickering and I am starting to despise myself. I'm a piss ant pussy because I can't handle a bloody cold. I'm a coward . . . I'm a coward because even though I've seduced my fair share of women, I can't even make the important one smile . . . I'm sure I do just the opposite. I'm sure I made her life even worse than it already was.
And so I watch the flicker and pick pieces of time from the floor. I cough, I sleep, I get pulled over, I watch Truman, I read a book, I put it all down. I think of her beautiful face, of what I could say, I could do, all in the sense of an anally retarded fantasy.
When did I become this?
Wasn't the quite delusion so much easier?
What's with all the grey in this existence, the lack of black and white that made the old days so much easier to understand?
I am happy, I am unhappy, I am sad, I am not sad, I like you, I don't like you, I am hungry, I am not hungry, I am horny, I am not. Black. White. Go all the way. Be vocal. Forget the middle ground. Get your knickers in a twist doing the wrong thing. Kiss and wake up. Fuck and make up.
Write something shitty just to make your day seem worthwhile.
And then turn on the music, listen to someone else pretend they are doing something with their life, listen to the same problems that we all have. Sigh. Take a deep breath. Forget about love for a moment. Forget about any sort of emotion. Wait for the guitars to kick in. Break into the night. Dream. And get ready to fuck everything up again tomorrow.
Because that is exactly what you do best.