The life. Routine. Same old. Familiarity. Its rotten cold stench fills the room. My nostrils. I hate it. I want it exorcised from me.
What has become of me? Of my mind? Of my heart? The baseless ruminations and trivial imaginings. No. I don’t even imagine. I hide within myself. I shirk and weakly accept defeat. I let this massive framework constructed by others fill my mind. It’s terrible. Simple terrible.
I need to squeeze it out of me. Bang my head. Smash it out. Beauty. That is what I want. Nameless, formless, ethereal beauty. Something that transports my senses and desires to distant wholly righteous lands. Whatever the hell that means. And that’s what I’m talking about. All this nonsense about sense. All this stupid schooling. Agh. School. It dampens the mind. Leaves boys and girls dull. Robotic. Refined.
I want RAW. I want RAW talent, raw emotion, raw feeling. I want the rawness of life to scrape against me, rub me into an agitated state so as to wake me. I want to open my eyes and see this rawness prevail over the population. Forget refinement.
Its a sick joke. The mass mania. The delusional enterprises of gratification. Of economy. This American dream. This American nightmare. This world, filled with animals. Walking talking animals. Empty in mind and spirit. They consume. They eat and drink and take in information.
NO. I refuse to go down that route. I want my chest cavity to peel back. I want my heart exposed and beating. I want to sink into the soil and rot and give new life to a bed of flowers. Composting new thoughts.
Have I forgotten myself? Is it the civilization that has high jacked my fantasies? Have I become irresponsible with the individual I am? Where is that small voice? Where is the voice that speaks against the grain and into the wind?
No more aphoristic speech. I want sheer agony to escape from the lips of my mouth and tips of my fingers. I want a song, a wretched song, a song so beautiful it renders the masses in agony. Their unworthy ears.
To foster passion, you need to get angry. You need to be shaken. I need to assert myself with some originality. Who the hell knows what that means at this point? So many conventions. They become rote and soon my brain disconnects from my heart and I spill apart. God. The pathetic ramblings. The pathetic complaints about rambling.
Get me out of here. Out of this body. Out of this mind. Into the raw texture of life. Wrap me in it. Submerse me in its itchy or smooth or terrible or awesome rawness.
The lights dim. Creativity? A voice? Originality? All pathetically manufactured. They have no meaning. They have been robbed and we have been fed a lie. Zombies.