bleh

I am so hollow today. But it's not really that. There's a power inside, but it's unfocused. I have trouble figuring out what it wants. I cannot put it into words. But I want to, so that's what this is for. This entry, I warn you, will be a RAMBLE. It will be as unfocused as the desire or pain or whatever is inside of me.

Maybe all this is is a song. Maybe it's the echo of The Dresden Doll's Sex Changes. Because I was empty today, because my heart was hollow and cavernous, it was easy for a song to fill it with noise. It's now bouncing around in there, making me fill like I'm full.

But I fear that I'm losing parts of my soul. I fear that my drive and creativity are slipping. Time goes by too quickly. I seem to be crippled inside, incapable of finishng anything.

It's this damn essay. The Breathing Mountain keeps me fettered to this chair. I sit here, futily attempting to make progress on this piece, while what I really want is to go outside. I want to be outside while the sun is out. I want to see light. But as long as I have to finish this essay, I stay inside. I look at this screen. I try, try, try to pump something out. But I also get distracted, because I need release. And it wastes my time. I waste my time in front of a computer all day. Nightmares about it.

Oh, none of this sounds right. Maybe it's all true. But it only shows and reinforces the literal structure of my thoughts. Where's the poetry? I can get poetic in my emails, but not in my journal? Of course, it's at simple as bringing lyrisism to your lines. It's a matter of . . . ah, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. If I was painting, what would those lines look like? Splatters of black, the edge serrated. For every thought in words, there is an echo in image. There is a dialouge that happens in my own mind. Noticing this dialouge is the key to becoming a good writer.

But will I publish this blog? Sure, nobody else is going to read it. But for my own sake, don't I want to read back over entries of a certain calliber? Because this isn't. But maybe I'll appreciate the rawness later. Ah, cliche is a word that should be illistrative, that hints at the dialouge between thought and image, but is really just thought. I say raw, but I don't think of rawness. What image really comes to mind here? Exposed pipes. This is a type of architecture. It is a design choice. It leaves the underbelly, the functioning of the space visable to its occupents and visitors. This entry has no drywall or ceiling. It hides nothing beneath a smooth marble finish. It is what it is.