I’ve been falling down a lot of dark tunnels lately. And not ones that lead anywhere specific, but instead have me giggling towards the sky with an infinite amount of unknowing. I find myself staring bleedingly at shitty computer screens and spend time guzzling down large amounts of alcohol, like it’s the bandage that’s gonna save me from getting burned again. I do this after getting consumed by the city in full. I walk the streets at night and blend in with the static. It’s never a balancing act, and it should be. Action is needed and action is possible, and yet I just sit there in that which is busy, and float quiet.

On the train a couple days ago, I was scribbling feverishly in my notebook, and had two different individuals staring in my direction. It was as if I was acquiring an audience for doing the archaic, and I remember marveling about that. Their eyes watched the intent in my face the most perhaps, and it made it easier for the flow of words to come, because suddenly they were my best material yet. The man sitting to the right, was a dirty looking thing, with a set of jagged teeth. He offered coins to a homeless boy at one point, and mumbled sweet nothings while looking out the window nearest him. Meanwhile, the lady sitting across from me, had her hair up in a messy bun just like I did. She seemed tired and said something about the express train, ‘going slower’ than she thought it should. Every few seconds she’d even grunt and groan about this. Together between the two of them though, I had eyes gravitating towards me, like flies to a lightbulb. Before I got off my stop, the gentleman said he’d keep me there in his head. “When you get famous off your writing, I’ll remember this day”, he said. And yeah, I guess it made me smile some. But then there was that inward thinking that I would never be the next J.K. Rowling. In fact, I remember the body reacting ugly about that. It was nothing ever wanted. 

Running to 85th street, there was that familiar smell of piss and dog stink, mixing with the soft-cut scent of freshly potted flowers. On the way there, I pretended I was elsewhere, and decided this meant something. In my mind, I was imagining interviews that I had yet to set up, and the interior of a coffee shop that I could see myself performing in. Always, I can see projects come alive like this in the brain, and taste the failure of putting them off, when I go home, only to meet up after with someone at a bar in order to sit around and talk about the ‘weather’. And you know, it’s all a pitiful routine. And today, right now, I’m over it. There’s just that quick desire to forever fight the disconnect.

Post Notes

  1. iamamanicstreetpreacher said: This is incendiary writing.
  2. insomniagirl posted this