I suppose I can afford to be somewhat liberal in what I write here. I am not confident that it is read by anyone but robots. It is possible that these robots are highly intelligent. Hello, friends.
You know that you have been away from the ocean for far too long
when you start to hear its prose in the brash lull of the dishwasher.
The trouble with being conceited enough that you spend a substantive amount of time in your own head is that you come to realize exactly how lonely you are (in the cosmic sense, such that it does not elicit vulnerability) and exactly how little that conceit actually means. It feels like punching a pillow, or crying in water. The body is a pillow, and slowly but surely, we are punching our way out. The body is water, and slowly but surely, we are crying our way out.
Neither of those metaphors is a stretch, really. They aren't even up to my normal standards of the bizarre. I guess an atrophied muscle is a dull muscle.
I miss being in writing workshops. I need them to regularly produce. Is that so wrong? Why is it a delegitimizing characteristic to so many... to need others? It's why there are words. Words, words, words. Shakespeare, you fantastic idiot, you've invested yourself in an alchemical device and you will never be the same for it.
I'll cut to the chase. The most horrifying and liberating thought, to me, is that it is all prologue.
You know that you have been away from the ocean for far too long
when you start to hear its prose in the brash lull of the dishwasher.
The trouble with being conceited enough that you spend a substantive amount of time in your own head is that you come to realize exactly how lonely you are (in the cosmic sense, such that it does not elicit vulnerability) and exactly how little that conceit actually means. It feels like punching a pillow, or crying in water. The body is a pillow, and slowly but surely, we are punching our way out. The body is water, and slowly but surely, we are crying our way out.
Neither of those metaphors is a stretch, really. They aren't even up to my normal standards of the bizarre. I guess an atrophied muscle is a dull muscle.
I miss being in writing workshops. I need them to regularly produce. Is that so wrong? Why is it a delegitimizing characteristic to so many... to need others? It's why there are words. Words, words, words. Shakespeare, you fantastic idiot, you've invested yourself in an alchemical device and you will never be the same for it.
I'll cut to the chase. The most horrifying and liberating thought, to me, is that it is all prologue.
