I haven't been writing much these days because, well, there just hasn't been much to write about. My head feels dizzy from all the things I look for as inspiration, as muse, as truth to be written, as letters to be bullets, to encapsulate the brain in vivid reflections self-evident in timelessness and wonder. The only voice I ever found was the one barking twenty years prior into my ear, into the future, into my fingers, and finally here- but its bullshit; its old. There's no room for it these days when the whole world has seemed to have gotten itself in a big goddamn hurry. My thoughts are obsolete. Spoken flowerings of generations past where I was never witness to what was really going on. So, you see, I find myself at a loss. I can't quite fathom the future- at all. The future, to me, is dark and cloudy, murky and full of hopelessness. I know that sounds obliviously stupid but I am a bit of a black and white sort of fellow and it just doesn't help much with the general consensus being that of dangers, frustrations, inflations, degrations, fashion, sex, smothering, dieting, rioting, bigots reformed, opinions reformed, politically correct, progress in excess in meaninglessness. All the real future-tellers were ignored before and will ever be until what they have told has made itself apparent to us when it is far too late to rectify, changed, prevent, or produce. Don't go asking me to recite specifics for you, I'm of the belief that petty facts are what make the day go longer, leading further from the point. The idealists are in straights again only now its chic to be an idealist and cool to be a crybaby and hip to not have real opinions, personal opinions about things. Sure, we are all of us chock-full of opinions but tell me are they really so complete? Maybe I'm getting off here and maybe I don't know what the hell I'm saying and maybe, just maybe I'm not worth a shit as a writer because I reject my generation like a child rejects his bedtime and I shun these walking zombies who find solace in the easy way out and I scorn those that defy their own shadows and the shadows of their formers out of ignorance and pride and the likes. Christ, now I really don't know what I'm getting at. Perhaps it's just a rant. A silly little rant because its easy to be angry but its hard to clearly see and change, you know? The isolation's killing me and I think it's brought me full circle again and I don't quite know if that's a good thing or not, you see. So, at one o'clock in the morning, on my porch with a few cigarettes, a tape recorder, this computer, and some whisky, I sit, thinking, relating, rejecting, observing, reflecting, and inspecting the perfections and imperfections of my life in this Life.
