I think so much of my poetry and music is just so melodramatic that I might as well not write anything because I don’t seem to be able to get to a level beyond Linkin Park middle-school emo band.
I have high aspirations, but low completions. My artistry is compromised by my laziness and the ineffable thing that keeps me in boring situations. Sitting like a lizard on a rock dreaming of ponds and hills and other things lizards are jealous of their friends on Facebook doing. Sitting like a lizard on a cloudy day, too cold to move my scaly little body. My walls are empty and not filled with expressionistic footprints of a life lived creatively. No art, no random cloths, no style. My mind races a minute a mile, but all I feel compelled to do is read addiction stories on erowid. The deeper the rabbit hole, the more I want to delve in and explore. I eat these stories up like cabbage.
Hours and hours of obsessive googling and re-reading the same drug forum threads about that drug that I’m taking or will take, or just took. Some fascination in that little black dot floater of my vision that I can’t blend out or can’t see or can’t nail down as it endlessly floats across my world, across the words on the page, and the faces of you while I’m talking to you.
I look over, again and again, at the same stories and forums like a detective, scouring the scene. Maybe I’ll find something else this time. Maybe I’ll find that thing that I’m looking for, that my dear little life depends on so dearly.
Maybe if I sit here long enough and write and write and belabor the sun will come out again and I will feel that euphoric rush. What a beauty! What a wonder!
Look at it. Such majesty in its sensitive details and delicate intricacies and obnoxious color contrasts. Such inexplicable joy in the way the lights dance and in that feeling I get when I’m with you and we are together in our wonderful intimacy.
But these things are all just games to me, and no greater than those fantastical worlds in which I dip my foot indefinitely. The etherial reflections they cast over the concrete waking world in which I am forever confined.
I try to cross over like a spirit. I strain my mind and look and see the water that floods the classroom, the great towers that rise, and castles and pristine cityscapes intertwined with the tall and short fantastic foliage of their purple, and green, and blue alien environments. The heartiness of the bread I eat there, and the sounds, and how even the air tastes so substantial and satisfying. But I look and I see and I look and I see, and the more I strain to see the dimmer it all becomes until there is nothing but the corners and walls and chairs and the messy hair of the twenty people around me looking at the whiteboard.
How flat and hopeless it feels in this world without my voice. This world, where I am chasing the dream like the junkie chases the dragon.