cynicalpessimistic

Closet Intellectual

Today I felt that I needed to embellish
My canvas wasn’t good enough
It was too plain
The sight was quiet and it drove me insane
So I took my instrument
It was pristine and sharp
And with precision
I made all my deep incisions
Inevitably, my mind was elusive
I couldn’t fathom the meaning of the activity
But my canvas was looking better
It was looking better
It looked better
I was sure of it now
And as I paused to view and as I waited
My genital regions throbbed and pulsated.

To my therapist.

Do you mind taking a trip of intense interrogation in an atempt to address my obvious appeared sadness? What would you ask first? Am i’m okay today? Could I spare a smile, or has my happiness decayed ? Am I on pills? Prozac you presume. To that I reply: prozac? I refuse. I’d go on to describe that I would lose in a race to survive, that I would lose my drive just before the finish line and I’d realise that no one was cheering me on from behind or at the side line and I couldn’t recall an optimistic, nostalgic memory from any sector of  my miniscule mind… and I’d run out of breath, hyperventilate then cry and spend 10 minutes being the submissive guy. A slave to my own mind, a slave to my own kind. a slave to the unknown, pending secrets to be told and unfold. I realise I’ve gone too far. I’m out now. I’m in the car – mentally. I freeze. You sneeze. I smile because I knew your action wasn’t legit. Your excuse to break the awkward silence was… shit. I’m neutral again. You ask how im feeling as if you couldn’t decipher.

Slowly,
I drifted off into the unknown
And told my conscious mind to go home
Told my demons I’m done fighting,
My body is here
My soul is hiding.

At 10:00pm

I often imagine what it be like if I understood ‘normal’ people. You would think someone of my apparent intelligence would be able to. What is weird or not comprehensible is that the way I cope with the unfortunate things in life perils my health in such drastic ways. Herein lies the most indecipherable paradox. I  wish i wasn’t a thinker. I have so much knowledge for the wrong things it leaves me in fathomless levels of complexity. You really don’t know how it feels to be captivated by your own mind. As I’ve mentioned before my subconscious mind is a right crafty bastard.I am obliged; or think I am obliged to do unconventional things to have some sort of connection to reality. Half the eccentric things I do is gratuitous and I know this and im never one to fight spontaneous urges of utter insanity.

Explain this.

Writer’s block: the return of the late night mental strain.

For some odd, ambitious reason when I decide that I would like to come out of my must-have-a-perfect-draft-before-i-publish shell, I have the slightest tendency to pick my brain for the greatest sounding vocabulary, phrases and witty puns to get the readers going. That tendency however, may come off as pretentious and my whole hours work is plainly grandiloquent garbage awaiting the virtual trash can if I don’t get the comments or sufficient likes I planned to endeavor. Well what do you know ey ? Trying to enlighten people you don’t know. How daring.

So what if it is 12am or thereabouts and in 8 hours time I’d be trying not to doze off due to the soporific effect that most teachers have when they do their job. Writer’s block, mental block, mind fuck. What ever you want to call it; it will always come out on top of every list. Most writers are as articulate as a fourteen year old girl five minutes after a three year hostage ordeal. My point being; writers are writers because the English language makes more sense to them in black and white text. Not to mention that most are loners by choice and their speech is inaudible babble that can’t seem to decipher between what they think and what they feel.

Keeling over my beechwood desk with my only source of light being a lamp with way to much voltage, has made me slither slowly into oblivion

This is the end of the road I guess. My eyes are twitching now as my brain flickers, reminiscent of my previous writer’s block post. I now continue to write because I have another tiring tendency to finish an A4 side of paper if I am close to it. Bloody writers block for fuc

Does a clean wrist still exist ?
If it does then surely a clean arm does not.
Are you brave enough,
To pull the sleeve up and reveal 
16 years of belittlement,
A teenagers experiment ?.

4/2/14

Image

Krist Novoselic and Dave Grohl, MTV Video Music Awards, Universal City, CA, US, 09/02/93

me in ten words.

music books coffee wine poetry literature guitars fastidiousness wit brevity.

twitter:@_w0nk4

John Donne: THE BROKEN HEART

He is stark mad, whoever says,
That he hath been in love an hour,
Yet not that love so soon decays,
But that it can ten in less space devour ;
Who will believe me, if I swear
That I have had the plague a year?
Who would not laugh at me, if I should say
I saw a flash of powder burn a day?

Ah, what a trifle is a heart,
If once into love’s hands it come !
All other griefs allow a part
To other griefs, and ask themselves but some ;
They come to us, but us love draws ;
He swallows us and never chaws ;
By him, as by chain’d shot, whole ranks do die ;
He is the tyrant pike, our hearts the fry.

If ’twere not so, what did become
Of my heart when I first saw thee?
I brought a heart into the room,
But from the room I carried none with me.
If it had gone to thee, I know
Mine would have taught thine heart to show
More pity unto me ; but Love, alas !
At one first blow did shiver it as glass.

Yet nothing can to nothing fall,
Nor any place be empty quite ;
Therefore I think my breast hath all
Those pieces still, though they be not unite ;
And now, as broken glasses show
A hundred lesser faces, so
My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore,
But after one such love, can love no more.

John Donne: Death Be Not Proud

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

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