it has been months since i read any of my own writing, and more months, still, since i put ink to carbon or byte to screen. it's sad, really,and i feel like noone can be responsible for this travesty but me. if you dont make time to practice a skill, you lose it, and my second degree eats at my every waking hour. responsibility that i never knew, work ethic that i never needed, dilligence i could hardly fathom, all are stuffed into my tired mind like some overtaxed finger food. even now, writing with a purpose that is intentionally purposeless feels a sham: i am the burnt out husk of a would be artist with too many needs to have time for wanting to art; words either escape me, or being scavenged, they discard their power and their essential magic to wait for a more practiced hand into which they might unlimber their weight.
the epiphanic is not unknown to me now. at high speeds and/or under mental strain my ear or eye will catch on some tinkling thing, and we will wonder at it together before it flits out of some window or another, lost. perplexed, i concede defeat to melancholy reality and the strength of its manifold succubi.
and all god's people say so the fuck what?
