reach out. grasp that sensation again. the lure of inspiration. the heavy lungs. brain tingling. mind sharp. images crisp. thoughts clear. retreating from all contact with reality to express the brilliance of solitude. only in isolation do the perfect words come. how do they know? at the point when everything seen could either be real or synthetic, and it wouldn’t matter. tomorrow will be plain again. not so bad. not so exciting. a painful tradeoff. sanity for boredom. take one and accept the other. a soulish gurgle spurts out resistance to normalcy.
“this is my life…and it’s no longer worth writing about.” once the noise has ceased. the voices gone. the stillness grows. the nakedness looms. exposure…so this is who i am. now that my thoughts are my own…who am i? no one telling me what to think or believe or desire. no one telling me who i am or who i should be. as the noises quiet, i am alone. a solitude more expansive than previously imagined. the comfort of propaganda has been stolen. my vices abandoned.
what to do…what to do. it could be more than i ever pictured because i couldn’t see past the cloud. the wispy smoke. the pounding drums. the whining guitars. the brainwashing infomercials. put it all aside. quiet. or maybe some Bach. either way, it is a brave new world to conquer. and i am just beginning.