Art is made by individuals; it’s not made in theory. It’s not made by being reasonable at all. It’s made by being obsessed. And you can’t teach obsession. You can’t teach obsession that’s intelligent and inviting. People just come up in spite of all this stuff.
I sort of enjoy the fact that I’m misunderstood most of the time. That’s fine.
I’m at one of those crossroads where i’ve either just ruined my life or saved it. At least i’ve got a sense of adventure and anticipation back instead of plodding along. The sad fact is i can’t stick to anything and i’m fundamentally selfish. But i have no family and i’ve lost all my friends again, so i can afford to be selfish. And i’m rich. Stinking rotten rich.
And girls and boys having money means you can tell the world to go to hell. And telling people to go to hell is my favourite thing to do. So in conclusion, i’m okay with the whole thing.
Also, they’ve put me on meds for the daddy issues. So now i’m really rocking.
What no one understands, is how comforting being mental can be, it gives you a focus, a reason to fight, adds a bit of spice to an otherwise beige existence. I’d rather be bat shit crazy than bored.
Creatures of habit that we are, are we still creatures of the world if we have no habit for it left?
To relinquish ones grasp on life and blink so often against the light of the day that you no longer see it at all.
I long for silence and the simplicity it offers, the rhythems of life once so sweet are now but nails down the walls of my poor broken mind.
Here i hang, neither living nor able to die and without the will to return to the path once so patiently travelled.
I am reconciled with my position as a mutant of human heritage, my peers fearful of drawing their final breaths and i standing amongst them, fearful of breathing all together.