Tuesday, March 31, 2009

The Problem with Not Writing

When I write for a living it interferes with the writing for the venting of my soul.

Then what happens. My soul fills up. It brims, overflows, floods. And there is nothing but this constant pouring with no abatement. And I want it to stop and I think I can dam the tide with writing but the writing won't come because I spend all my writing time getting paid for it.

Vicious cycle.

And what I want now is to escape the cycle.

So here I sit and wonder about this. Having gone through maladies and tumbled through hereditary bruising yet again here I am. And what do I want to express.

I sit. But there is no enlightenment.

I work but it's only for the money.

I see people but so few of them see me.

I need to paint. I need creation I need to move, I need something something something.

Palliative whining is all I have.

It will come back. Two weeks ago I painted and then fell deathly ill. I've consoled myself in the arms of lovers, pretty girls with white thighs and longing, others with a stretch of arm and will and passion. But there is no consoling. I do not feel stilled. I do not feel passions wane, only more fire more need more desire.

Korea is stifling and I'm lost.

What will I be tomorrow?

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