* Picture by: Filipe Dumas

Last night a delirious moaning noise, filtered towards that of the chirping of a bird. I’m able to write about it, because I know it’s nothing that will be read or analyzed by the one that it matters most to. Sometimes writing is greedy and grotesque and I feel that I may be cooking up my own death. But sometimes the truth is better when dumped out measurably. You sit in your own shit and piss and you force yourself to be good. You see the filth for what it is. Your failings are there read back to you. Reading old diaries is like looking at your reflection in the mirror. Typically once something is created, I just sit back and shoot it out, no matter how grizzly. From that point on, it is nothing of which I have any control over. It is merely something that I had labored for and now sits waving a messy hand towards remembrance. Often, the mind just feels like a catalyst for material like this. The process is gold, but the end result is just something for others. Read or not, it sits and speaks and moves, but it is a living creature that doesn’t need your attention anymore. It’s a silly little echo.

Post Notes

  1. insomniagirl posted this