I wish i could make you feel better

The Blind Leading The Invisible

Here I am nothing.

Here (s)he is nothing.

Here you are nothing.

(S)he runs away, does a good disappearing act, nobody takes note.

Life’s too normal to be bothered about these little things.

That’s you; she. He.

Doesn’t make a difference the mirror’s foggy and so are my days running, crashing into each other, put your hand up if you’ve ever felt like the world was just one big “meh” (shrug of the shoulders)
haha! Yes yes yes! (Raises hand) that’s SO me!
Omg and today was one of them days because I woke up thirsty and I immediately thought to myself (you’re a chicken shit) and I knew I was telling the truth because it didn’t make me feel bad, that description, that reality.
Yeah. Maybe knowing you’re not alone in that pit of chicken shit will make you feel less like doodoo
I doubt that and I don’t do that (hope you get better) bull because it doesn’t cut through the static of (kill kill kill…) angry face! shouting in the mirror and screaming in the shadow. Phew. …. (Yourself)
and my colleagues look like angry lopsided ass cheeks


Rigid Hand To Crooked Heart

Loved myself once.
Now lines have taken over my face.
The, rotting away of time, almost tangible.
I can’t stand to be around any youth with their enthusiasm and their ignorance of what’s to come.
I know too well; sometimes I wake up and I smell it.
Strong stench of fate; its ebony hand reaching out, stroking my hollow cheek.
Was in love with myself. Didn’t do me any good.

I Know Nothing is Easy, but what is Something?

Oh Fiction! Illusive ordered make believe. Swinging from sense to no-sense but not too much no-sense because that’s just nonsense and nobody understands that unless you’re one of those coffee binging, assorted mild-psychoative drug taking kind;
extracting inspiration from random abstractions.

“Picasso is a realist like HD tv.”

Not really but ok.

Where am I going with this!

I feel fiction has defeated me. The way a large mountain defeats the climber who turns around and heads back home to safety and reason. And freely wiggling toes.

From now on I approach fiction like a jazz musician. A spontaneous dance with chance.

Outside of that; I’ll flirt with the unreal in the field of Creative non-Fiction.

Why is Fiction so hard? Coherent fiction, good fiction, even if it’s the repetitive cosy detective kind. Predictable yet emotive. I’ll take anything as long as it doesn’t bore me while I’m making it.

I enjoy a good Law&Order episode. Old or new. Drama at its most reliable. But perhaps it isn’t meant to be or it’s hard because it’s complicated (or cannot be formulated and reproduced like cow milk).

Either way (or neither way), I feel an incredible failure for not cracking this field like my idol Garcia Marquez, that shining literary prosian.

Quitter Blogger Out!

It’s not really the 1st of April! don’t believe a word of it…

I had a ghost story to tell but I forgot whom to!
Worst of all I can’t remember what day it was when I had this story to tell.

*On my love of nonsense literature.

Louis Carroll jabbed me with his ghost pen and told me he ain’t no ghost writer until I told him he was dead (so?) but he responded quite wisely saying he hasn’t written a word since (oh).

[Louis hasn’t a single relation to his syllable-namesake.]

I shoot for humour but mostly end up with dead silence.

Isn’t it hilarious how the further into the future we get as creatives it seems more and more has already been done?
Performance art and the sciences are all that’s left. Just a pointless thought sprayed recklessly into a crowd.

Contemplatively constipated blogger, out.