The writer is eternally observant, lost in a cloud of mental notes and sound-clips—files preserved for that masterpiece that's just beyond comprehension right now. Dry-humping the notion that creativity is a spring-time song-bird with fickle tastes. That she delivers the goods only with a formula of equal parts precision and luck.
Lies.
All that time on the sidelines, watching other people's lives unfold in an effort to better relate to the human animal—as if the knowledge might somehow improve perspective.
The mind is a formidable opponent. Polymers of phrase-speak that play like radio commercials in grid-lock traffic, white-washing the internal space. Bright flashes of inspiration that tease the edges of the tip of your mind's tongue.
Doubt is the lovely confidant to your left. All opportunities for reminding you of her presence are taken.
Pride? Destructible. Words do not spare clarity. Honesty is currency in a system controlled by fiction.
The words roll out—analysis and comprehension of EVERYTHING YOU SEE AND HEAR.
Overload, constantly. Must learn to seek solitude—recharge. Perhaps learn to enjoy what has been compared to vomiting on a page.
Sometimes, there is the delusion that this is just about telling a story. That entertainment is the de-facto end game.
Lies.
All that time on the sidelines, watching other people's lives unfold in an effort to better relate to the human animal—as if the knowledge might somehow improve perspective.
The mind is a formidable opponent. Polymers of phrase-speak that play like radio commercials in grid-lock traffic, white-washing the internal space. Bright flashes of inspiration that tease the edges of the tip of your mind's tongue.
Doubt is the lovely confidant to your left. All opportunities for reminding you of her presence are taken.
Pride? Destructible. Words do not spare clarity. Honesty is currency in a system controlled by fiction.
The words roll out—analysis and comprehension of EVERYTHING YOU SEE AND HEAR.
Overload, constantly. Must learn to seek solitude—recharge. Perhaps learn to enjoy what has been compared to vomiting on a page.
Sometimes, there is the delusion that this is just about telling a story. That entertainment is the de-facto end game.
And then I realize that this process is thousands of years old and that I'm no different from the large foreheaded ancestor in a damp cave, using crushed berries to illustrate the hunt.
Look at what I did! Look at what I can do! You've gotta hear about the size of that fish!
We grope for realism by mining the dark places of our experience. To paraphrase Tolkien, sometimes we mine too greedy. Sometimes we mine too deep. There be monsters.
Giant, distorted beasts of things that once were--our perception stunted at this level like a failing torch in that humid cave air.
To entertain? To show off? To make a connection? Or to purge all that shit onto something examinable?
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