sometimes there’s nothing left to do but write.
write in rippling circles with no direction, until you’re half-delirious
write like you jump into a freezing pool of water, shocking your system into some pseudo-intellectual epiphany.
sometimes my disjointed consciousness churns out metaphors and observations like an assembly-line.
other times, the phrases and sentences mold themselves, forcing themselves into existence.
but is it anything worth sending out to the world?
Anything worth mass consumption?
writing is thinking.
and my mind is an open vortex of bitterness, contradiction, and resignation.
but somewhere in the mix, there are dreams, always dreams.
Ridiculously huge, fantastical dreams.
I don't write for anyone else.
Selfish in my privacy, fiercely protective of my inner voice -
I write for me.