Monday, October 8, 2012

Balls

Writing here was supposed to help me. Now I'm feeling stifled. Censuring everything is beginning to piss me off. I want to write his name all over this fucking page. I want to write it out plain, to hell with being beautiful. Self consciousness is the death of art am all I'm doing here is looking right at myself and judging it. Trying to make it readable, interesting to other people. I've dragged myself though the ball sweat stink of pretension. It's fucking funking.
What I really want... really really really... is to write out my obsession. How these thoughts have blotted out every moment that don't absolutely require me to think of something else, moments for instance like talking to my boss, or making a left turn in traffic... or riding, not then. How it feels to watch yourself go crazy. Watch yourself climb a up the fucking water tower in a lightning storm, and not even bother to coax yourself down. I'm in danger. There is no doubt about that. The gap between fantasy and reality is probably getting bigger and bigger each immeasurable moment. And yet... there I go.

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