Stand still like a humming bird hovering over a flower but inside the flower the light vibrates.
Forget forsaken thoughts: remember the time that you didn’t remember.
Originality craves attention by being unoriginal.
What are the origins of your thoughts: whence comes this moment?
How do you decide what to do, where to go: what are your prompts?
It is easier to find the right words rather than writing what you think.
When you feel conflict with someone what dose that say about you?
What is conflict but a way to get to know yourself: say hello to the asshole within, he is such a rude prick or a silly cunt.
Shy of breathing we should do little else but because we have this capacity to express with pick our noses and wait. We never speak about what it means to be ourselves because who we are is undecided.
Writing is my way to find solace otherwise my thoughts are hateful. I rather not think with the voices in my head: I would rather make contact with the unknown revealing itself in print.
A continued dialogue with myself has evolved, an altered ego that stamps out this post. It’s not real, the exchange is arbitrary.
You live long enough you get to see the full show but you can’t leave the theater no matter how bad the movie because it’s your life.
There are moments which involve you in acts that (how would you finish this sentence: I couldn’t, some how i could not find any real meaning in continuing it; that happens, a sentence will evolve and because it has set up a thought, I usually follow through working to make sense of what it may come to mean).
Multiple threads to pick from, pick one that feels real and write where it leads. In some way I follow after what I write. There seems to be a higher order of thinking. I could be wrong. To even get this far has been a great effort because so much of what I think my writing mind edits out as cliche ridden.
It’s like I am unable to ever again to write like I had somewhere to go, it’s like that part of me has been bruised through neglect.
I look back on my short stories and I think I can no longer summon that illusion that sustained me to write those stories.
And i lack real imagination to create something otherwise than what I live; no not so much imagination, but I lack the capacity to put it all together into something coherent. I dabble in writing like others dabble with pain pills, not knowing nor believing that this veritably leads to heroin. What is heroin, but a vainglorious way to live. I am addicted to writing.