Poetic & Spiritual Delinquency in the Modern Age

And when you want to do anything but go to sleep and the waking world holds little interest you find yourself here, trapped in between midnight and before you know it, it’s already gone. It’s 1:26 in the morning and you know you have to get up for work in a few hours and the right hand always drags behind the left…I’m right handed and my right hand drags, something about only using the index finger and the thumb, bad habits and this poetry comes out all wrong and you can’t think of anything to say so you write jibberish, lines of jibberish like this and you’re not sure where to go from here, salivating for tomorrow’s paycheck and wondering if this is as good as it gets? So be it? It is noble, but hard to say and you know there is no easy way out and not that anything is expected for free, but why should I expect anything at all? Just a few more good lines, just a few more. Turn out the lights, shut the door, forget the day and its ruthless traffic and nameless faces. Forget the sea of whys and the woe of tomorrow, forget peace even and sit and stare, stare at your life flickering across the screen, letter for letter leading to words and someday maybe even a story. Just a few good words, maybe a few more, and maybe it will happen. Maybe this will all melt away and I will be at the threshold of the gates. Maybe I can type my way into the philosopher’s stone, to see this world from the inside out. Maybe Hesse was right; maybe only a few are born masters and the rest die trying to get there. Is this the artist’s curse? That in their craft; being exposed to overripe feeling and impossible life for too long they can no longer differentiate the truth from the false? The fragile living canvas can only hold so much paint, and then something snaps, the wood framing cracks and the cloth returns to dust. Is it the search for immortality that everyone holds as a hope, whether they admit it or not? Not wanting to stay and not wanting to depart, that’s it, that’s why we follow it through, dancing past midnight, even if we are alone.

It comes in beautiful fragments

more to come here.