2011 Manuscripts: August

So undesirable and misspelled, come numbers and vicious life. Eyes lay black, I write about flies at mob dinner parties, cooing sweet hummings to swooped ear. I have no idea where I am in life right now. I feel in free fall, my skin is slowly sprinting from my bone. I believe in worthlessness, and only little else. I am the coward and I cannot move. The biggest judge and from which halls I rise to fall out, cobbled bruises, numb kowtowing cries, half hearted. Art is where the truth is, and I do not believe myself an artist.

I am an artist. I am a coward. I hate myself right now, I hate my cowardice. I am angry at my impotence. I am drowning by the hand of both tear duct and mucous membrane. I feel nothing. I feel no compulsion except flitting anxiety in slow motion time that feels like many a ravenous stampede of creatures hailing from hell. I am even made discontent and cruel by this freefallwrite, for it is not what I want and it is Holden Caulfieldesque. I see myself as optimistic, but many a times it was pure sugary numbness.

My resilience and mystique scares me. My malleability of personality is a terror like a sportscoat hanging in the dark. I can fill anyone’s head.

Will I write college essays till I die.? Let inertia take me flailing, or sweet cold docility, with the bloody ink trailing down paper, wood, carpet. Or the one-two binary type of death.

FUCK ALL OF YOU. RESPONSIBILITY IS MY DEVIL. I FEAR ISOLATION. I CRAVE ISOLATION.

I WANT TO DIE SURROUNDED BY MY ART.

I WANT TO LIVE MAKING IT.

I AM AFRAID TO LET ANYONE SEE MY ART. I AM AFRAID TO STUDY ART, TO HONE ANY SKILL. I WILL BE HELD RESPONSIBLE FOR MY GREATNESS.

I am an egomaniac. I believe in my superiority. I am the heaviest rock in the sea.

With the bitten tongue of coincidings, I feel that I am worthless. I feel a force penetrating me, installing ice columns in my every tubile, creating a tundra of  throbbing unfeeling, burning me into uncaring. I stand alone in this ice haven and the twinkling of small black notes freed from paper accompany my frosted leather coat. Solitude. Fear.

I am bound? Or am I mobile?

Am I just the fumbling tripper, the twang-scarred acrobat of avoidance?

Sprinting from myself like my pencil-legged father. Eyes filled with turquoise lead, crying fools gold, slivers of venomous idle chat sifting through Lord Capitalism’s room.

I will leave this unfinished because nothing can be worth recognition and yet fame is what I crave. Attention is my withdrawal, and the hermit is my drug.

My fish are fighting. The pierced lion envelops the whitemare’s left neck. 

The trees are mourning for me. And praying that I find my peace. 

I need to believe in something other than my worthlessness and impotence.

I need to believe in myself.