Words flow easy when you are angry, done with doing over and over, the same thing I would eventually forget.
Wake up on better days, not hiss at cats, not spill coffee or feelings because it turns out to be a mess anyway.
I scan the traces of my clumsiness - a bruise here, a bruise there. Tripped. Brushed off the broken frame of a door. Hit the the edge of a table. Drunk, yet so sober. So bloody sober.
I lie awake on a badly made bed that wouldn't and couldn't accommodate anything other than myself. Abominable thoughts scarring the entire process of imagination. What should I be thinking about right now? Possibly?
Human race? Dammed Human Race? Art? Cats? Work (that hardly seems like work)? What?
I forgot all that I read, all of a sudden it evaporated through my skin and bones into the mist that surrounded me. Left me pale on a hot sunny day, and I realized it wasn't sunny anymore. I was under a cloud. The cloud let me bask in a gloom of obscurity.
Breathe. I said to myself over and over and over. Until the words walked with me and became a part of me.
These 'maybe's' and 'if only's' that you carry with you around your waist, they clamber on your back, sticking to you like a leech, squeezing the life out of you. The life that told you to go watch a movie and take your girlfriend to dinner.
I would at this juncture want to be reincarnated into the Persian cat I found sprawled outside a magazine store, coming out of which I regretted not having picked up Tate? Why? Why? It was a good price. These were weird people who did weird things without ever having to feel sorry for themselves.
The cat, sprawled on the floor. How adorable are eyes that say to you - Nothing. I feel nothing!
Art scene : A splash of colors, form, shape, dimension, structure, a chromatic excess of bleh, worst of all .. price tags. Like inheriting some vague form of judgement that you were better off without knowing.
The more I found myself looking, the more I realized it wasn't art. Nothing was art and art was nothing. It was just meaning that wasn't undone.Couldn't be undone.
Wake up on better days, not hiss at cats, not spill coffee or feelings because it turns out to be a mess anyway.
I scan the traces of my clumsiness - a bruise here, a bruise there. Tripped. Brushed off the broken frame of a door. Hit the the edge of a table. Drunk, yet so sober. So bloody sober.
I lie awake on a badly made bed that wouldn't and couldn't accommodate anything other than myself. Abominable thoughts scarring the entire process of imagination. What should I be thinking about right now? Possibly?
Human race? Dammed Human Race? Art? Cats? Work (that hardly seems like work)? What?
I forgot all that I read, all of a sudden it evaporated through my skin and bones into the mist that surrounded me. Left me pale on a hot sunny day, and I realized it wasn't sunny anymore. I was under a cloud. The cloud let me bask in a gloom of obscurity.
Breathe. I said to myself over and over and over. Until the words walked with me and became a part of me.
These 'maybe's' and 'if only's' that you carry with you around your waist, they clamber on your back, sticking to you like a leech, squeezing the life out of you. The life that told you to go watch a movie and take your girlfriend to dinner.
I would at this juncture want to be reincarnated into the Persian cat I found sprawled outside a magazine store, coming out of which I regretted not having picked up Tate? Why? Why? It was a good price. These were weird people who did weird things without ever having to feel sorry for themselves.
The cat, sprawled on the floor. How adorable are eyes that say to you - Nothing. I feel nothing!
Art scene : A splash of colors, form, shape, dimension, structure, a chromatic excess of bleh, worst of all .. price tags. Like inheriting some vague form of judgement that you were better off without knowing.
The more I found myself looking, the more I realized it wasn't art. Nothing was art and art was nothing. It was just meaning that wasn't undone.Couldn't be undone.
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