As I was walking on the stair
I met a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today.
Oh, how I wish he’d go away.
I met a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today.
Oh, how I wish he’d go away.
I sit here on my bed, in my home, my jail. And I figure, I'm going to allow two hours, to be spent sleeping, or not. But two hours, to hate myself...
All those loathsome things we say to ourselves. How the guilt is too much to bare, yet isn't ours rightfully? How do those happy go-lucky people do it? We write books, movies and poetry about this mortal struggle. The message? We are not alone. But I can't imagine others say some of the same things I say to myself. How can they do it? How can they shoulder that responsibility? I'm failing if that is the case.
Start: 2 hours. Still sitting here.
Should I sleep? If I'm writing now, if I have an inspiration shouldn't I continue. Or will it die out quick, much like my buzz before the feast of junk. I have a b rate film playing in the background, non inspirational and draining, it plays to numb the awakening of guilt that little weed brings.
So I stuck in something a bit more inspirational. Silence of the Lambs, and there is no need for the obvious remarks. Dig deeper. I want to be driven, healthy and I want to learn everything I set out to learn. Have my interests dictate my actions rather than depression.
So I”m at a pass. Two of my proudest moments in life, being given the keys to Riverview, seeing a client tear up over a piece of my art, our soul, their image.
Do I have to die to become an artist?
Damn ramblings...
