There is a marked difference between the words you find when you're looking for something to say and the one's that arise when you're following a compulsion to express something already burgeoning beneath the surface. It's the difference between form following function and function creating form.
Any monuments errected to previous successes cast too great of a shadow upon futher endevours, to be being able to easily access the space of uninhibited exploration and play which oftentimes was what yielded the great successes to begin with.
I wouldn't want to be the child of a celebrity.
Fancied myself a writer of sorts after the ease with which yesterday's noise came about.
Today, I'm submerged in the aftermath of that reverie with not so much as an aftertaste of the endorphins which were so abundantly available previously.
On a good day, I'll show up to the desk regardless, hoping presence alone will entice the muse. Sometimes I sit there for hours
reaching out to a phantom limb.
If the body follows the rhythm of the mind, the fact that my mine can be so easily ensnared and enthralled by the groove of a catchy tune should be concerning from a medical standpoint. This is a metaphor for interpersonal dynamics.
I'm feeling self conscious today.
There's an oppressive and over-active Super-ego gripping me in a clenched fist. Little bits of spit flicker out of it's mouth as it shakes me around, back and forth and back and forth like a rag doll and one hits me in the forehead as it hollers in my face, "I've been more significant in the domestication of humans than the Agricultural Revolution! Don't you know who I am?! Ask Papa Freud, I created you and ALL your little Homo Sapien friends!"
I don't know what that means but I have no choice but to grin and bear it because I swallowed my tongue a long time ago and wouldn't be able to dispute it even if
I wanted to
I lie down on the floor, dazed and nausious from the high density of information intake. The resluting expurgation is painful and thorough.
I've decided the best way to achieve absolution of my unpleasant feelings is to no longer care about what you think of me or at least to do a better job at giving off the impression of not caring. Either directive leads to virtually indistinguishable results so
it doesn't really matter which one I end up more closely approximated to in the end, does it?
So I'll load whatever dignity I have left onto a little boat and paddle myself towards a stream of apathy,
regardless of how real or imagined it may be.
And I'll do so with an unshakable air of ease and nonchalantness
albiet, with clenched teeth.