Scary

Here goes another round.
The demonic soulsearcher has cast his spells, and I am nearing the cliff.
Yes, I have used alcohol: it lifts the weight off.

So I am struggling: what all about this whole new idea: listening to self?
How do I go about it, and isn't it just a new version of the old: admittedly, someone knowledgable gave me permission (if not obligation) to 'do what I want'.
Welcome to hell. Now I have to actually figure out what I want.
Oh, right: been there. I'm stumped.

Every second, the question: do I write? Do I sublimate? Do I throw out life?
Am I overreacting? Selfindulging? What would make me beam?
Am I being enough of me?
I expect this writing not to be a success, and am wondering if it is a trick of the mind. THE mind.

Tuesday, everything seemed open for solution. Now I traced it back to square one.
I may need professional help.

And why does it take alcohol to write anything after tuesday?

How can I be sure?

Then again: (I hate the inhabitant of at least one of my shoulders) perhaps this is the last snowfall of winter? Or the homeopathic effect? I guess I'm not worse off than before - just troubled again (and forced to encounter unwelcome history).

Compensation, right? Man, there's still a lot of convincing to do - though I am willing to fall in love.

Zen and the power of creative writing tells me to practice writing without a stop, never raising the pen, never unstroking the keyboard. I guess I need editing before publishing, but this site is not meant for beauty. Confession, more likely. And I like the idea of stream-of-consiousness: the writing for me.

Conflict, conflict, conflict. But where is the sun?
At least there is hope now.
Free will is a bitch.
And old Freud is probably right: it all comes down to sex.
But I didn't drink all that much.


Note to reader: be not alarmed. I had to write this for me (and as an ugly challenge to Steve). All is well. And improving. Demons are perishing by well-aimed stabs of letters. Though perhaps not these. I am pondering whether they should be sung.

Alonely

Oh what joyous wordplay this title is.
But what truth it holds: I am feeling immensely alone.

She was sure it would not be midnight.
He may just have come over.
Only 30 people waiting for her before me.
Why isn't he answering anybody, probably?

They are fast asleep (and may annoy me if not)
He is more for her.
I am looking for it, calling it home, like prize pigeons, or skinny dogs by starved vagabonds.
She is sick and he another victim.

Its weight is pinning me to this chair, my mind racing, set free by only little alcohol.

I feel like a fish in a bowl. With the ability to remember. And only plants and bubbles around.

My ache, my urge, my drive for darkness is fed by all and everything.
Abandoning is my ugliest friend.

I am the opposite of buddha.
I am the centre of my world.
All else fails.

Perhaps the book is to blame.

Help wanted.