March 11, 2006
There is nothing like writing and writing... day in and day out… the endless cycle of words is the only living thing I spew. It is actually quite sad. I once wanted to live life. I wanted to hike- to climb the mountain, smear the dirt, taste the sweat and scrape the skin. It is all a faded memory now. There once was a wet damp leaf, frosted over with dirt and live insects. Now it is a dirty room- the recognition and the testimony to frustration, irritation, death, ignorance. It is no wonder that I am in a very bad mood then, since I no longer try to obligate the masses. I have been the rope, in my past life. My cords were frayed, my mind was taut, tense, and sacrificed- all for the temperamental vices. I was pulled this way 30 degrees, this way 5 inches, dunked in mud on victory’s round and then I was crucified by the very ones who cried my name. It was brutal and I was a death defier. I can look at it two ways- I am a triumphant successor who carries battle wounds with pride- or- I am saying, at every moment, “It is finished,” as I drag my dead body around, trying to altogether fall over and disappear. The last one is mine. It is one of reluctant recognition and agonized defeat. I stood for about ten minutes and looked around the room- I saw the remains of intense fruitful activity, I saw the open tools and utensils, I saw the discarded copies and versions, I saw numbers and names. Then I looked down, at myself. I saw flesh and might- at least the remains of such- when I was gradually pulled through the paper shredder. Ah, procrastination, for tomorrow, what potency! You have wrought my final hour- and my quiet, unnoticed downfall- indeed, for it was because of my immense victory that no one took notice of my fall. But here I lay- in the bottom of pit that is muddy and worn- countless times have I fallen before, each time believing it to be my last, yet I have risen, and now have returned. Will I rise? Will I ever return? Oh, it would be nice, to have legs, arms, and eyes again…. but it is so peaceful here… I can finally rest. I want to stay here… until I am ground to frustration and burst out of the pit in splendid defiance. In a spit of anger I prefer to rise. I have wearied and journeyed long enough. Here I shall not wait- I shall rest. If I so happen to be filled with a surge of desire- then so let it be, so let it come, as it may. Whatever, in truth, whatever.