i am writing. i arrived hours ago.

during the weekend, it is nice to abandon the pen for a while. it is relaxing to be able to pursue thought as an activity, without the finality of ink. conversation becomes an alibi and under the mottled throw of firelight and thick-beamed ceilings, we drink and talk and talk some more.

i pay for nothing, guilty, but the words are currency enough. later in the evening i shall draw pictures and hang them above the bar like a portrait washing line. i try to retain something of the person. some say this is the work of a madman, or of arrogance. i believe in neither.

judgement and adaptation requires patience and dead sound. i speak not a word initially when in new company: i am too wary of my own afflictions. words spoken too early reach shores unchartered and condemn themselves. i am not a sound, yet. remember, i was guilty before i began.

in this way i talk of nothing, think of my journal and allow the relations to unfurl like leaves in first light, the silent hated observer.

but now i pick up the pen and endure the release, this positive waste of time. it stops me talking to people, at least, which i am thoroughly bored of.

2 Responses to “invisible”

  1. If one is born to write, that one cannot escape his destiny.

  2. “it is relaxing to be able to pursue thought as an activity, without the finality of ink.”

    whenever i do this, i don’t seem to make sense. i suck at conversations.

    but yeah, i enjoy the process, the how-to-get-there, and then i won’t seal it with ink. it just hangs there like wet undies.

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