i've been cleaning my room (for a change, for a change, in preparation, for a change).
i came across a brown portfolio, and in it was my past, condensed, epitomized, how sad.
i cringed, really.
'the younger years: memories are an inevitable curse'
'the longer stuff: nothing more than a longer plea'
and
'words, call it prose, call it nothing'
being eighteen must have been really, really rough.
wholly broken, incessant anger.
i fold the paper in half, laugh, tear it, and it falls to a pile next to my bed. my laugh wakes asia from her sleep and she rolls her eyes. i laugh, and it falls. the pain that dripped from that pen back then was so ridiculous. too much music, too much compulsion.
now, it's the same music, but more of it, and louder. it's more compulsion, it's sought after. and it's a fuckton of more subtlety.
good night, and good luck. :]
good night, and good luck. :]
It's sadly the cures of those who traverse the pathways of their heart and mind through the implementation of the written word -- That such a concrete trail is left behind. Never entirely forgotten...simply left behind as they jot on into the future...new conflicts, same words. This trail that leads scarred over wounds to recall those moments of incision that gave them birth. Its always so weird re-reading old writing...its almost surreal...unbelievable that it was ever composed as is. We look around and see our world through different eyes...or the same eyes, just from a different vantage point. I love destroying my past...I am an artist after all...I took on the responsibility of recreating my past...projecting it through time with my words...only to come back and haunt me another day...I think I've earned the right to destroy my own creation. But truthfully...its never entirely purged.
ReplyDeleteagreed. hey, nice to see you back on my blog finally, captain. bahah
ReplyDeleteI have always been present :) Sometimes I simply silently admire your writings :3
ReplyDelete