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. tomachfive Says:

    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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