(no subject)
I am suffocating. The pressure builds and I feel disconnected, distracted, irritable.
It disconcerts me. The timing has never been more right.
I don't want that muse to come. It only brings sorrow in its wake. But it comes hither, and I cannot reject it.
It has chosen me, and I have chosen it in return. There is no going back.
So I am pretentious. So I am conceited. So I have delusions of grandeur. What does it matter? My voice does not reach the depths I wish. It does not soar the heights above. It merely creeps along the ground, hoping for recognition, despising the need for it, winding broken-back across the obdurate, weaving a tangle of vines on the back of its own mediocrity.
I want to burn it all down and start over, but where can I build from, where there are no foundations? I despair of ever becoming, and my voice is lost; I cannot pretend to see, when I have no eyes. I hear, but do not comprehend.
I am lost, and do not know how to be found.
It disconcerts me. The timing has never been more right.
I don't want that muse to come. It only brings sorrow in its wake. But it comes hither, and I cannot reject it.
It has chosen me, and I have chosen it in return. There is no going back.
So I am pretentious. So I am conceited. So I have delusions of grandeur. What does it matter? My voice does not reach the depths I wish. It does not soar the heights above. It merely creeps along the ground, hoping for recognition, despising the need for it, winding broken-back across the obdurate, weaving a tangle of vines on the back of its own mediocrity.
I want to burn it all down and start over, but where can I build from, where there are no foundations? I despair of ever becoming, and my voice is lost; I cannot pretend to see, when I have no eyes. I hear, but do not comprehend.
I am lost, and do not know how to be found.