once again
I sit here, only daring to dream in broken and fleeting instants about a life that I was ever-certain to inherit from destiny's winds; my mantle, a picture so clear that perhaps I never opted to imagine that it held the beauty of a perfect photograph, and, hence, was unrealistic.
For the rest of it, I am certain of loneliness, and lonesomeness, and emptiness. I am positive of anxiety and obesity and lethargy and giving up on the dreams - not finding time to make chase on those most-important creative impulses. To find safety in the dread of when or how you will change your license plates or clean the bathtub as it absolves you the unholy terror of facing the *actual* dread of waking up in a world of responses, of just-barely-grinning-through-another-agony, of accepting, settling, making do, being content or desperately seeking something that resembles same.
Sid Pink lives on, the glorious epicenter of his own making; just as vacuous but somehow linked to his fictionalized nature. And then there's *me* - the creator suffering at the hands of the monster; but not. He is known, I am a phantom. He dresses the part, I am conflicted. He can speak, and I cannot converse. When he sleeps, he dreams my dreams and he longs for my exact desires -- yet here he is, pulling off one-liners and sleazeball come-ons with aplomb.... not that it matters. We are both housed in the laughable vessel, clad in the unspeakable, coiffed with the pathetic balding wack-job... cartoons might be popular and everyone has wanted to seek the sexual companies of some animated character at one time or another; but really - Sid Pink is not one of them.
Nor am I.
SZ came over for an instant and stole back his DVD player. Now I really have nothing. Nothing but the work and the sadness of having nothing but the work. And the Great Empty that my life has become. Anxiety bigger than all of us, risking to envelop all that is sacred. Or, at least, not unholy.
You know it's bad when you can't even conjure the energy to make those gripes, to tell that tale, to expound/deconstruct/smirk inwardly -- even here; Livejournal, the ultimate narcissistic playground on the web - the whole point is to indulge oneself, to become mired in the unmitigated hubris that dictates how you really do dserve an online diary; and that people would read it, and care.... and that somehow, some way, things can change.
I fear I will never have the courage or time to really snuff myself in that proper, one brief moment that I control type way... and thus, the aching slow demise, brought on by nothing more than one's self-subjugation to it's relentlessness.
flutter flutter --- no one knows what's next.... right?
For the rest of it, I am certain of loneliness, and lonesomeness, and emptiness. I am positive of anxiety and obesity and lethargy and giving up on the dreams - not finding time to make chase on those most-important creative impulses. To find safety in the dread of when or how you will change your license plates or clean the bathtub as it absolves you the unholy terror of facing the *actual* dread of waking up in a world of responses, of just-barely-grinning-through-another-agony, of accepting, settling, making do, being content or desperately seeking something that resembles same.
Sid Pink lives on, the glorious epicenter of his own making; just as vacuous but somehow linked to his fictionalized nature. And then there's *me* - the creator suffering at the hands of the monster; but not. He is known, I am a phantom. He dresses the part, I am conflicted. He can speak, and I cannot converse. When he sleeps, he dreams my dreams and he longs for my exact desires -- yet here he is, pulling off one-liners and sleazeball come-ons with aplomb.... not that it matters. We are both housed in the laughable vessel, clad in the unspeakable, coiffed with the pathetic balding wack-job... cartoons might be popular and everyone has wanted to seek the sexual companies of some animated character at one time or another; but really - Sid Pink is not one of them.
Nor am I.
SZ came over for an instant and stole back his DVD player. Now I really have nothing. Nothing but the work and the sadness of having nothing but the work. And the Great Empty that my life has become. Anxiety bigger than all of us, risking to envelop all that is sacred. Or, at least, not unholy.
You know it's bad when you can't even conjure the energy to make those gripes, to tell that tale, to expound/deconstruct/smirk inwardly -- even here; Livejournal, the ultimate narcissistic playground on the web - the whole point is to indulge oneself, to become mired in the unmitigated hubris that dictates how you really do dserve an online diary; and that people would read it, and care.... and that somehow, some way, things can change.
I fear I will never have the courage or time to really snuff myself in that proper, one brief moment that I control type way... and thus, the aching slow demise, brought on by nothing more than one's self-subjugation to it's relentlessness.
flutter flutter --- no one knows what's next.... right?