February 3, 2014

I have been drinking, and it has been far too long.
I miss you all, sweet nobodies,
People I imagine return to this blog,
Fascinated by the writing that I so desperately hope is revolutionary.
But let me tell you a secret,
The more I write,
The more I listen,
The more I believe that writing is shit.
That it’s all a pile of bile, hah!
That it’s nothing but self-indulgence,
Mindless pandering
A vain attempt to justify, or rectify, or overcome
One’s own sense of inadequacy.
To feel secure is to be blind,
I assure you.
But to feel secure also is
It’s blindness, yes?
Yes, I do believe so.
So we write and write because we think we are intelligent,
Or inspired,
Or ahead of our time,
But in the end it’s nothing but a rehashing,
A regurgitation of what has been,
What will always be,
What will never cease to be.
I’m full of shit.
No doubt.
But the more I write, the more I think of it,
The more I come to believe that it’s all worthless,
And that the only true recourse is to live,
To move,
To not do anything but tear apart
And to indulge,
To take arms and fuck it all.
I’m done for now, good night.

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For the Intermittent Writer


Short books about albums. Published by Bloomsbury.

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