last night, I met up with an old friend, insomnia. sometimes she is an evil bitch. other times she guides my hands through creative endeavors, writing or painting or some shit, early into the sunrise hours of morning. other nights like chinese water torture. like last night. everything I cannot change swarms through my head. she pushes hope out of my brain and fills in the gaps with mournful regret. with lost love. with what could have been. she was a child with a magnifying glass. I am an ant. I tossed and turned under her watchful eye and her bad energy haunted my every thought my every dream inspired by desperate longings and impossible situations. I imagine all of the hours spent staring at ceilings on top of tough mattresses and send shivers down my own spine. It is cold. The covers are not yet helping.
2:20 am
I've developed an addiction that is powerful like nicotine after a second time quitting, then the seventh, though it is unrelated to chemicals. We are at warfare. Senses alert for opportunities to satisfy craving. The fear of nervousness. Without the pack. Without the patch. Driving along the coastline with windows rolled down. Sunglasses are on and everything feels perfect and incredible. Sudden realization that this life is real. Always reminded of the best moments. Spectacular powers of observation. Placing hands on shoulders with a grand memorization. Mesmerize the minds and feel blank walls placed strangely around the room. The blank faces and the empty stages. This is something tangible and outside of any duress. No stress no setbacks. A pack a day to abide by it. The rule. The notebook and paper. The ideas for stories. The execution of rants. Some based on ideas. Reminders and hints at past occurrences. Like the Ferry to Seattle for a music festival we attended in the rain after a party at a cabin out in the woods. Along the lines of the ability to execute a grand idea. It is not about the accumulation of ideas. It is to put them in effect. To translate into new social laws. To change the course of history. The current of the raging river. Heading elsewhere. Away from all right ways and ancient understanding. To be future minded yet wary of the past. Never forget what defines you. You have so many stories. Bursting. Addicted to printing words. For speaking in ritual to an audience of one though directed towards different entities most times. Nausea drags the creative self out and back into a slumber. Nice to know you and to appease you.
