It's not a provocation of Mayer craze, but I really feel that I'm missing something here. And unlike every other writer, I felt this revelation of mind, of mine was vital not because I need to inform my people that something's not right with me, but because I needed to talk to myself and I needed to tell myself that what I'm doing is nowhere close to being 'right' and that's not a negation, no, it's sort of the contrary: I don't know that I'm not being right because I'm being wrong, it's rather like I know for sure that I'm not being right, but I doubt if I'm being wrong and there's only one explanation behind this ruckus: I'm being nothing, currently.
Maybe I am being something. Maybe I'm being a boy, maybe I'm being a boy that's trying to be a man, maybe I'm being 18 years old, maybe I'm being an insincere sportsperson because I'm not trying hard enough, and maybe I can stack this ensemble on and on, but the bottom line is that I'm not being what is 'normal' to me, and it's a stage where I'm not wasting time, but killing it, and there's a difference, because wasting doesn't leave a trace, but this killing act, well it's bound to leave behind memories no pleasant than what I am now, and that's an all-time low in bitterness. And I'm inactive, yes, and unproductive, yes, and I'm completely aware of the fact that I can't possibly talk myself out of this, because more or less I have to do something to sweep out the cobwebs and tell the spiders to find home someplace else, and it's not like I'm not trying, it's just that I'm not trying hard enough. I drew something, sure, but it's nowhere near what I can manage when I'm totally productive. I haven't written anything in ages, and music's sounding monotonous to me, except when I sleep, in which case I just don't hear it at all. I guess it's an ailment, and I'm glad to give it my name if it's not been given a name yet.
No words, no patterns, no music, no cinema, no seriousness, but a hell lot of ideas and a notion of this state of mine and that precisely is, this state of mine. Like having three pens and only two hands and trying to write three poems at a time, and I guess I've got to do something to get out, and you'd know it too, on seeing how pathetic my analogy was.
Maybe I am being something. Maybe I'm being a boy, maybe I'm being a boy that's trying to be a man, maybe I'm being 18 years old, maybe I'm being an insincere sportsperson because I'm not trying hard enough, and maybe I can stack this ensemble on and on, but the bottom line is that I'm not being what is 'normal' to me, and it's a stage where I'm not wasting time, but killing it, and there's a difference, because wasting doesn't leave a trace, but this killing act, well it's bound to leave behind memories no pleasant than what I am now, and that's an all-time low in bitterness. And I'm inactive, yes, and unproductive, yes, and I'm completely aware of the fact that I can't possibly talk myself out of this, because more or less I have to do something to sweep out the cobwebs and tell the spiders to find home someplace else, and it's not like I'm not trying, it's just that I'm not trying hard enough. I drew something, sure, but it's nowhere near what I can manage when I'm totally productive. I haven't written anything in ages, and music's sounding monotonous to me, except when I sleep, in which case I just don't hear it at all. I guess it's an ailment, and I'm glad to give it my name if it's not been given a name yet.
No words, no patterns, no music, no cinema, no seriousness, but a hell lot of ideas and a notion of this state of mine and that precisely is, this state of mine. Like having three pens and only two hands and trying to write three poems at a time, and I guess I've got to do something to get out, and you'd know it too, on seeing how pathetic my analogy was.
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