Why writers drink (And I don’t drink often)
I want to be clear
I don’t know what I’m talking about,
But I can’t help but put down what comes to me
from my mind through my heart,
But more likely
from the cacophony of cultural flowing garbage that I imbibe
every single day.
Here goes…
How many days have I avoided,
or just not been able to commit to the page in front of me,
to put pen to paper?
Why do I still struggle so often, so much of the time?
Does time matter anymore?
Everyone seems to be doing the same things,
Trying to live the same way…
as if things are going to be the same.
As if that choice didn’t impact so many others
that fundamentally depend on our actions
at all times.
We can’t control what we’re born into,
but we are responsible for how we use our experience
that we don’t deserve
good and bad
right and wrong.
In order to understand that
one must confront what it means to be alive
and how you have been lied to
in order to keep the current machine moving
turning the gears of institutions
that eat bones and blood for efficiency
in theory
Such that those who created the machines
can continue to convince you
that they knew all along
what we all needed
Because the evidence is all around you
So that everything you see and hear
Makes itself true as being self-evident.
I may never be a real writer,
getting anywhere close to what a novel might entail.
But what my little essays,
My poetry,
my indescribably persistent angst I would never dream to let go of -
what it makes absolutely clear to me
is that I absolutely understand why writers drink…
How the hell else
can any one person
even begin to tell the truth of what it means
to be a part of this world,
in this time,
and be aware of it,
to…
to
t- start to explain it?
You can’t be of truly sober mind
to admit what being normal requires.
Being normal,
being acceptable,
being a part of the game of refusing all of who we were meant to be -
and those who have been exterminated in order for our normal, modern tranquility
to continue unchallenged…
This…
to me………….
Is how I start again and again…
to break myself down -
all my perturbations and mannerisms and institutions of culture and upbringing
and truly inseparable ways which I’ve come to understand myself in my own ego.
That peculiar sense
that the outside world
sees
as my unique experience
without seeing me whatsoever,
still represented in the particular lines
and shape of my face.
Once a crack opens just slightly,
to see just a little bit underneath,
to peer into the abyss
of what I may never have been able to imagine,
when noone but me can see me,
or save me…
This is when I start to become afraid,
and the slightest movements or distractions
become blaring sirens
and strange and beautiful elements
start peering back.
Just before the inevitable universal noise floods in
in the next instant,
Then…
I can begin__