September 18, 2012

• Aaron wishes he had a small word processor he could write on when it was quiet...the kitchen table computer and the bedroom tv/computer just don't inspire him. He remembers that little room with no windows except a glass screen into the minds and hearts of others called the computer monitor, and that old keyboard he used to beat the shit out of when he was inspired. or drunk. maybe it was all the same to him, perhaps it still is.

  All he has for words now, are pale gossamer weaknesses that somehow seemed to lack the enveloping suffocating heat required for those slow miasma laden dances paired with that most hated muse of all, evil powders and subtle poisons often referred to as libation, though in truth they were a rash of hives shrieking over and over again to kill himself ... and as such, he found little solace in such slumbers and the wretched dreams that followed, hounding out those lost and forgotten words he had tried so hard to keep buried lest he weep upon their escape into the night sky like shooting stars in reverse, a swarm of fireflies laughing there way up into the Heaven as the Forest burned below.
  What he needed was discipline, and solitude. Neither would come without a price.

   

  • 1:25 am
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