My purpose in writing this is to express and deliver an acceptance of life and the moving towards using it in a way that positively describes it.
What is the hesitation that comes over me, this doubt?
Is it negative? Am I swaying from my point by asking it?
Is it positive to be asking at all?
If one were to question infinitely, would the limit move towards positivity?
I should fight the urge to reread what I wrote right now, a habit of mine.
I like to read it over
fluctuate the rhymes
and play the voice actor
to make me feel like what I wrote has a meaning deeper than the inner need to express myself.
To prove to myself that my plans are valid
that my hopes are not completely deluded, deranged, and desperate
but actually represent a moving forward
an acceptance of my workings, my machinery
my inefficiencies and my strengths combined into output.
Fight the urge to look up, fight the hesitation.
But by fighting the hesitation am I fighting life?
Or am I fighting the fighting of life?
What is life?
Is it only Dionysus?
Is every thought that enters my consciousness, arriving as bubbles of multiple colors, tagged with words, pieced together into memories, nothing but a lie, a delayed letter that I am only now reading, after my brain has translated it, refusing to show me the original?
How pure can I act when my perceptions are interpretations of interpretations?
My Life For Dummys.
Fight the urge to return to the top so I can quit.
I’m not so tired yet.
Something about positivity…
I’d like to describe some beautiful moment
And somehow capture the idea that
The wonder of that event would be proportional to the pain preceding it
But on retrospect I’d just be spending a great deal of time
Doing something that so many have already done before me
Simply to make myself feel like an artist
Like someone who cares
Who knows what others don’t know
And treats thems like idiots
As I lie to my own face.
It feels really good to lie to yourself, it does.
I’ve done it plenty of times throughout my life.
Maybe, at the time, I was aware of it, and my pride was just mightier,
Because when I remember it now I recall one of those little wooden hammers
For toddlers who are just learning
To tap pegs into their respectfully shapes holes
Hitting against my head
As I tried my best to excuse myself in a way that made me appear respectable
But idea after idea and memory after memory
Have wrapped iron cobwebs around this hammer
And now it seems anything I say brings the punishment down.
Every output is wrong.
So I prefer to sit in my chair
Staring at nothing in particular
Trying to empty the urge to get up and do something productive.
Is the feeling itself guilt,
For failing to finish
Or even begin
The work
That is so important to rent
And my self-concept?
Or is it life itself? Driving me to
Move
Move
Move?
Too much second guessing,
It’s gone.
I’ll read the words just to hear the sounds.