Tuesday, 11 November 2008



I have a lingering suspicion that if I was to use an X-ray machine to peer inside my soul, it would be hideously, horrendously polluted. If all human beings seek is acceptance, then why is it all so hard? What state of mind does a man have to be in, when he is so desperate to have creative thoughts, that he shuts off from the world in a conceited attempt to summon them? A man can be as mentally empty as a dry elixir, and yet still try endlessly to drag out some perfume-scented ideal from the murky pits of his rotting carcass, to prove and sustain his mechanically operated wonderment. I am so happy with my achievements, but I demand so much more of myself…..For, if the masters recapitulate this notion that I should accept myself 100% all the time, then what on earth would act as that driving force, that motivates me to do better than I can, and draw extramural patterns with my subconscious?

Books divulge information, like straws allow us to swallow milkshakes. Hot air is burning my lungs, I am breathing in the fumes like a junkie determined to erase all proof of his pitiful existence. The intoxication of a musty room allows my body to feel lighter than it is, and my brain to feel like the end of my life is relative under my own terms. The thick aurora of the processed air represents a swamp of breathlessness, that I can comfortably swim in without the fear of judgement and resentment. Maybe this is how a child raised in the sewers feels about sunlight and normality. Angry that he can’t deal with it, uncompromising about its absence, and bitter about those whose glow in it’s rapture.

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