Free Association
(verbatim and untouched)
Where do you think you can go, with all the weight of the world behind you? Disassociate. Stop thinking. Free association writing is that, after all. Don't worry about the insights, the looks into the imnd. The misspellings, like that one. Your eyes are still closed, you've been able to type sentences, paragraphs, entires pages with out ever looking at the screen for years now. FF in the background, night on your lips. Where? Does it come back to the sotry? Bu why fail to get there now/ It doesn't seem to make sense, it's not fair, that everyone has to keep their fingers moving, the sentences coming out, longer for some. Sooner for me? What is the price for all of this? This life, this payment we write through, where can it ever be recalculated? Scary words. What a disturbing thing, these weakk, fleshy sacks, unable to protect themselves, unabl t to hope for anything better, a decaying mass ready to give up the ghost at the first opportunity or sickness or car. Where do they sign? But the few that durvive. What is that, really? Do the good ones die young? If so, what sense life? If life is all. If not... well, then this has point once again. Can I live without that? Without the point, the feeling the passion of the chase? Where is all of the bluebirds, if not for in the birdhouse? Why go there - feel rushing, farther away from the keyboard, only fingers now. A rift of blody and time. Where is this? How long? It seems obvious that everything we do is controlled by human intervention, how to stop it, Maraaret and Martin, where art thou? Marla. Still writing, still living, still doctor, still dying. We all are. But how to die is the question, the scariest perhaps, for to discuss something is to make it a reality. Cliffs? Fiver? Family? Friends? The thoughts o fdeath and night and sleep. For the end of all things, and all times. How to stop the force, how to continue to do more things from spite than love. Hopefully not true, with lights, and the light of the end of the tunnel is Heaven or death. Pick and choose, hop eyou don't lose.
Where do you think you can go, with all the weight of the world behind you? Disassociate. Stop thinking. Free association writing is that, after all. Don't worry about the insights, the looks into the imnd. The misspellings, like that one. Your eyes are still closed, you've been able to type sentences, paragraphs, entires pages with out ever looking at the screen for years now. FF in the background, night on your lips. Where? Does it come back to the sotry? Bu why fail to get there now/ It doesn't seem to make sense, it's not fair, that everyone has to keep their fingers moving, the sentences coming out, longer for some. Sooner for me? What is the price for all of this? This life, this payment we write through, where can it ever be recalculated? Scary words. What a disturbing thing, these weakk, fleshy sacks, unable to protect themselves, unabl t to hope for anything better, a decaying mass ready to give up the ghost at the first opportunity or sickness or car. Where do they sign? But the few that durvive. What is that, really? Do the good ones die young? If so, what sense life? If life is all. If not... well, then this has point once again. Can I live without that? Without the point, the feeling the passion of the chase? Where is all of the bluebirds, if not for in the birdhouse? Why go there - feel rushing, farther away from the keyboard, only fingers now. A rift of blody and time. Where is this? How long? It seems obvious that everything we do is controlled by human intervention, how to stop it, Maraaret and Martin, where art thou? Marla. Still writing, still living, still doctor, still dying. We all are. But how to die is the question, the scariest perhaps, for to discuss something is to make it a reality. Cliffs? Fiver? Family? Friends? The thoughts o fdeath and night and sleep. For the end of all things, and all times. How to stop the force, how to continue to do more things from spite than love. Hopefully not true, with lights, and the light of the end of the tunnel is Heaven or death. Pick and choose, hop eyou don't lose.
Labels: Reality Has Nothing On Me
posted by Mat | 11:03 PM
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