Your Thoughts?

The sickness of my soul is not dissipating with spring, with booze, with anything. It used to be, give me a good pen and some paper and I’ll fucking destroy worlds of thought with words. Now, it’s all electronic; its all without a pulse. Some kind of crutch I can’t do without. I guess that’s the way of things but while we’re on the subject I think it stinks and I wish I had never submitted to its ease and convenience. And yes, god dammit, I do feel like there is some kind of sickness in my soul. I feel uneasy, restless, exhausted, bored, excited and confused almost simultaneously- all the time. So I do things to keep me distracted, you know? Like these fucking movies. I watch a movie about a guy who is on his last leg, about to give up the world and commit the eternal deed of darkness, then he’s interrupted and some cute little blonde job with all the right answers comes sprinting into his life with surgical precision, cutting right to the cancer in his heart and removing it, and somehow everyone comes out O.K. and in love and all that crap. Well, I don’t really know why I watch the shit, I guess it’s been programmed into my brain or something. The worst of it is that I actually prefer the kind of movies that I feel most resemble my deep, wanted fantasies. I am a fiend for love, only I don’t know shit about the subject. All love isn’t the same- I don’t care who says it. There’s love for flowers and rivers and sailing and smoking and having a good wine in the porch in July and there’s love for a dog or a goldfish or a distant cousin and there’s love for your family, the close one’s I mean, like mom, dad, sis, bro, grams, gramps, aunt, uncle. It’s different for everybody, but the thing that sticks, that really cuts down deep is that other, bigger love, you know. That kind is the kind that makes all these other’s happen, in one way or another. Hell, you could say it’s the other way around if you wanted- that all these prompt the big Love I’m getting at. Any way you slice it it’s still that big, end all, be all, chips fall where they may, dare to live kind of love. That is the love which my soul thirsts for and is sick from being deprived. Honestly, anybody else writing shit like this would make me sick, make me annoyed to even read it because I would quickly scoff at the lines and say, “so and so is too goddamn young to even know what love is!” It’s bullshit, I tell you. We all know what love is. Sticky, stubborn, pissed, intoxicating, motivated, destructive, ambiguous, dangerous, deadly. It is the means to each and every one of our ends. Too much love, you go mad. Not enough, you kill yourself or someone else. Long life full of love, a whole damned series of generations riding your coattails. Short lived love, the tragic undertaking of painful memory and cheap articles and literature. Love is a motherfucker, I’ve decided. It’s so hard to figure out. I’m so pathetic, really. I can’t even say hello to a girl. I guess I’ve got it in my head that something will just happen, you know? BoOM! Love is here! Days of agony over! Bullshit. Some say you’ve got to work at it and some say its magic before your eyes. Whatever the hell it is it’s damned late or neglecting. I probably no good right now, anyways. If love came walking around some corner I wouldn’t even acknowledge it, most likely. I would keep walking along, my eyes planted to my feet and the pavement ahead, thinking about why it is I am such a sap and a weakling and an obsessed freak for this silly concept that seems anything but. Love would go on, unimpeded and I would light a smoke and try and think of something to do later on since I can’t just sit around loving somebody.