Time is changing every day; now when I think of looking at the former [__] THE BEAST, all those yearnings, wishes slip away, fall to the floor in polaroids, and when I look horizon-bound I find I’m not so yearnful after all. The fact that such a [__] could ever have become some stalker face-up all my dreams should have been the first tip-off honestly and even though the north country’s laid itself barren for only some short time, already I’ve found:
THE BEAST’s horns and crown aship at sea right now but soon enough returned and brought to coast
THE BEAST’s claws a dime-a-dozen but right now raking through soft earth in slight East loamlands:lowlands
THE BEAST’s burst-open brain-and-heart already beating, ticking deep inside a little thing once called out as THE TERRORISTA
go back to your sixth hell…666th hell….to join THE DEVIL in those all-pretenderers…sigh…I feel better without such sadists snipping at my back
I cut off the fangs of a creature that once might have stood as a man but who instead I’ll simply have to call THE BEAST; both THE BEAST and THE DEVIL are (j-u-s-t) figures now, cut-out paper dolls pressed tightly between pages of another book on a shelf stretching 47,977,377,636 feet and accessed via telepathic link with various tab-marked sections; a lexicon;
The past few days, the weather’s been quite nice; although my moods have been extremely up-and-down (partially due to illness and partially due to other physical maladies), summer makes me want to write and work hard and look at different things. I feel that I become an insular and reclusive creature in the winter and while I don’t say I could ever call myself an extrovert, the past few days I’ve wanted to- actually look at different writers, look at different artists. The norm for me is to compare myself ad nauseum to everything but I’m learning to shed those sentiments, slowly. I tend to avoid looking even at artists I very much admire because I start to feel so inferior in comparison, but then, I wonder why I do that when I don’t even want to be an illustrator in the first place? Art for me is just a means to an end and I’ll never call myself an ‘artist’ or describe myself as any noun- it’s too easy to box oneself in that way- sometimes I draw, mostly I write, but if I want to change my verb-of-the-moment I don’t want to feel so embedded in these set guidelines of what exactly I’m doing with myself, creatively.
Now that my illness has finally cleared (I was bed-ridden and even head-sick with fever to a point where I could, when I closed my eyes, feel my body drifting in a million places at once) I can work on writing with more clarity. I have so many words I want to put down and places that I want to not only go to but take others to as well. WILL you come on these journies with me?