His Raindance
I have no artistic nutrition. I hate feeling empty; It's a horrible feeling. I have no stories to tell.
Australian beaches are good for nothing but lust and postcards; and coffee looses flavour unless it's used in urgency- which the slow summer does not muster often.
I actually find myself not minding going back to almost longing for school; merely for something to feed myself with. It is in no way a matter of boredom; but without stimulation I am gaining nothing except hope for some amazing climax of thought which doesn't appear to be happening. What curse is this that beginning Year 10 would seem to draw me in? To excite me?
But I miss cloudy days and hiding from the clouds and sitting at my table and watching the battery indicator on my discMan slowly fade away and hearing the bells ring in some disonant harmony that calls masses to movements; the beautiful conformity of motion.
What good is a camera, what good is a piano, what good are eyes and ears when I am so empty that I cannot find the simplest pool of thought to dive into and drain of energy and fill. I feel like the summer has evaporated all my emotion and energy into a mere gas that I strain to catch with a net.
I wait for the cold when It will once again liquify and rain upon me with an unmatched flow of power. The droughts of the spiritual-nile will cease and hopefully I will reap the grande harvest that is to grow here.
And this earth is dry; these lips grow contours. Rivers have flowed here recently; but even he knows that it is merely a stream that will not sustain the field.
He is waiting for the rain;
that lukey is.
Australian beaches are good for nothing but lust and postcards; and coffee looses flavour unless it's used in urgency- which the slow summer does not muster often.
I actually find myself not minding going back to almost longing for school; merely for something to feed myself with. It is in no way a matter of boredom; but without stimulation I am gaining nothing except hope for some amazing climax of thought which doesn't appear to be happening. What curse is this that beginning Year 10 would seem to draw me in? To excite me?
But I miss cloudy days and hiding from the clouds and sitting at my table and watching the battery indicator on my discMan slowly fade away and hearing the bells ring in some disonant harmony that calls masses to movements; the beautiful conformity of motion.
What good is a camera, what good is a piano, what good are eyes and ears when I am so empty that I cannot find the simplest pool of thought to dive into and drain of energy and fill. I feel like the summer has evaporated all my emotion and energy into a mere gas that I strain to catch with a net.
I wait for the cold when It will once again liquify and rain upon me with an unmatched flow of power. The droughts of the spiritual-nile will cease and hopefully I will reap the grande harvest that is to grow here.
And this earth is dry; these lips grow contours. Rivers have flowed here recently; but even he knows that it is merely a stream that will not sustain the field.
He is waiting for the rain;
that lukey is.