I cannot give myself to anyone.
Cannot feel their touch without revulsion,without a certain shrinking away.
Cannot write with that same steely passion that stoked the blazes of creativity in months past.
I sit here, empty, a shell pouring out the random thoughts to the world at large. Except it can't be the world at large since it's only this little screen. My own personal little confessional. Ready and waiting.
A dull ache runs through my bones,through my mind - I've lost the poetry somehow. The sweet ability has escaped me. Where is my Muse?
Lost to me, faded into the world of the unreal. No longer supported by my shreaded belief. If he ever was. I think of him and
Oh God, such a lie.
I feel loss, grief....for my talent has fled with him. My eyes sink down below and my energy has fled. And so I sit and type away at nothing. Meaningless, unable to focus, sickeningly depressed. Cannot my wicked wit save me from this growing pool of self-pity?
Sort of like Alice's pool of tears, I suppose. Only more bitter.
Definitely more salt.
I tell myself to smile, to wring a ray of light from my dismal
demeanor, and I cannot. I cannot.
What I would give for a crystal, for the sight of an owl again. For that naive hope that somehow I will see him. And then the questions come, reverberating in my soul: Why would he want to see
you now? What's so special about you anymore? What was so special about you ever? Why were you so unique? Who's been telling you these abominable lies?
Because I needed them. Needed to believe in them. Just like I still do.
What I need is some proof that he's still there, still watching, waiting.
Something to write about, to invoke my passion once again. So I
don't have to stare at a bunch of melodramatic claptrap again and retch at my painful attempts at art.
God, what is it to be normal? To be just another one of the mindless crowd. Or least with mindlessness would come a sort of
release. A release from the pain of living.
If I was in the mood for sound, I would let loose a hollow laugh at that statement. I mimic Lestat now,talking to Louis. Except I get to play both parts here, both the temptor and the temptee - and there's nothing to offer anyway.
Just the emptiness, the lack of anything worthwhile. No drive, no emotion, no willpower.
Tra La La.
It never really was fair. Of course, I still don't have a basis for
What the hell do I know, anyway.