Sunday, September 18, 2005

Nor Find Myself In Its Lack.

Others have stated what I wish to, and done it so perfectly that if I were an eternal pessimist I would stop writing for fear of frenzied repetition. I have seen so many turn their heads in blank stares and avoid what it is they could easily see. I know not if it is fear or complacency; I know not if it is apathy or pity which drives their necks toward the ground as they look down only at their feet and scramble past. I've been to the bottom of that which I see but not found the courage to seek farther. I wake up in the morning to gaze out my window and I dread the walk to work which isn't to come for hours. I sit and write these fragments, uncovering all I might have thought or felt, and then I return to them the next day, out of curiosity and forgetfulness. I should be writing epics, novels, something outside of myself, but I cannot find the perspective to be someone else, to know someone else. I must invent the people who understand me and I must make them into fiction but each time I take this pen to paper I end up drowned in nothing but a slow unveiling of what I never was and never could be. Books are stacked all over my small room and often I cannot choose one. I do not read a great deal of poetry; it is too abstract and distant. It defies real language by leaving jilted lines and jaded cadences. I cannot make poetry of my own nor find myself in its lack.


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