I write, eat, and sleep.
I work my body hard, to stay alive.
My word is my passion, my prison. It is self-imposed.
I forego most vacations. They seem meaningless to me.
Vacations are for getting fat. After a day, or two,
I want to go home.
I want to sit in my dark space, and write.
I don't want to change the world, or any of that crap.
I just want to show it, in its' rawness.
I like to be alone. I am happy with my isolation.
It's better this way, believe me.
If I go on vacation, I might inflict sarcasm on my family.
This is not a desirable option.
They wonder, "What's the matter with him?"
They all shop, cook, laugh, take walks in the lovely woods,
lounge in hot tubs, sail, and have a genuinely good time.
I've done all this before.
I want to explore new territories.
These are locked somewhere in my brain.
There are things broken in there, that I have to find.
Then maybe, I can fix them.
Everything is pointless, anyway...
vacations, writing, balloon rides, skydiving.
Why do we do these things?
Maybe it's because we are greedy.
We want to fill our lives with as much shit as we can,
before we die.
Eat more, drink more, screw more, do more of everything.
Then they can tell me, "Why do you want to sit in the dark, and write, when you could be with us on vacation?"
I truly don't know how to answer them.
I am broken.
There are some things you shove so deep,
it's as if they never happened.
Don't worry about me.
Someday, I will free my mind, and set my lonesome dove free.
I have a winged bird inside of me.