in my most protensious moments i am the saddest. also i think i have the biggest ego when im the saddest. becuase its then that i assume ill grow and be published and ill have movies and ill have music and ill have books and ill have drawings and paintings with my name on it. at my most hopless i dont think of anything except trying to breath deeper.
logically the heart is associated with love and pain so much because thats were it hurts, deep in the middle tension reaches out and holds in my chest with nervous strands like hair. but then i wonder if it only hurts there becusae ive been brought up around the notion that the heart is the center of feelings. maybe i just associate the too things because ive heard terms like "heartache" "broken heart" what a trivial chain of thoughts, i hope im not as full of shit as i sound.
thats what my biggest fear and most painful anxiety comes from. the fear of being an average little person whos personal dramas are no more special than anyones. im afraid i sit and make plans forever and then when i do somthing ill watch it, listen to it, read it, and realize how fake and phony the whole thing was. everytime i touche somthing im afraid it will turn to shit. and many times it has. occasionally ive noticed that i get a few things past myself. but then i usually get the feeling people arent really seeing what i am. i guess its really stupid of me to expect people wont understand. i like to believe i dont think im better than anyone else. because i know no one is better than anyone else. but then again i could be wrong about everything i think is right. thats the fear. ill see this in a few years and realize how immature and stupid i was.
this place will have to do on lonely days between five and nine.
somtimes it doesnt take a few years, somtimes, like right now, i know how full of shit i am. and backspace is just a click away, but ill leave it this time, so it all wasnt a total waste of keystrokes.
British Sea Power and At the Drive-in
feeling slightly blank
strive to be him
intangible, can’t grasp, to fast
running through the silence in the apartment
but slowly the sounds build, like the metronome
broken faucet keeping beat of rising tension
the sides of a skull can’t hold back a flood
the ground tremors before volcanic eruption
the chair creeks before his explosion
now he is the calm and next
will be the storm
with the introduction of the song
filling to the brim of anticipation
and then the explosion of sound
fills his ears and bursts the gates
he is a force of nature
his hands spew ash
onto waiting canvas
it’s high tide for creativity
and a wave of work washes up
on the walls and floor, balanced against chairs
sinless gluttony of his artistic appetite
indulging himself while he can