On something internal

In truth we are nothing. Nothing more than we impose on ourselves to be. We speak great words, believe in even greater ones, and yet we seem to fall short, every time we are brought face to face with our fears.

I’ve been feeling guilty lately. Guilty of not writing, even though ideas and key phrases have hovered in front of my frontal lobe more times than I’d like to admit. Last night, at 2:37 am, as I was smoking my cigarette and drinking my bourbon, listening to music that would otherwise enable my engagement with pen and paper, I sat and thought.

I asked myself why I had not written in so long. Why I had not read. Why I had no interest in verbalizing emotions that were strong enough to tear through paper and into my glass desk. I asked myself. And then I answered.

Maybe it was time to live, accumulate, absorb, integrate and breathe through the fantasies I had always had but had never encountered, experienced, or allowed myself to behold. Words had finally been obliterated; made obsolete. Made extravagant in their inability to convey the essence of a true, albeit esoteric, life. 

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