is spelled out in my afternoon dreams today.
terrifying.
things i didn't know i was capable of thinking.
like anger more intense than ever felt accompanied by circumstances vile, absurd, dire and trivial altogether.
i guess i have chosen my line of work. and it is work, capital W.
work and not art. and not the stuff of higher learning, adventure, and a few other unknowable loves. i chose it freely and do not regret it. and i am mourning the losses deeply.
watching them escape. pieces of me escaping me. rejecting me for somewhere nurturing. fair enough. these dreams are tearing me up... anyway.
former options morph into impossibilities. one for each of my 26 years.
now i just want a bit of sleep. some time with a book, before passing out completely,
and a little energy to write one goddamned letter.
still...it feels like my cells are all splitting in stupid ways. tearing from the inside, when i can't decide what to do with a free hour. a random gap in time; a hole to fall into.
each is a tiny hell housing a devil for each desire.
each a purgatory of ungraspable longing.
yes, stress. you are indeed the predator of our species.
scooping up the wounded of the pack to give em a slow one.
installing the fear, an everlasting download of time that appears to turn on a wheel
that we can stare at
waiting for something to change.
You may think you have not chosen art as your line of work; nonetheless art has chosen you, as evidenced by every wise and beautiful thing you create and give voice to. Including this :)
ReplyDelete