The pub on the corner.

must keep writing.
must work to make $ and can’t write stories because I must work which hurts my hands.

Reading “Beautiful and Damned,” drank most of 1 liter of rum
and feel little.

I see in terms of stories and no longer just write – which is what normally led to stories.
must write something.

words words words
i need you
i must have you to put down,
to connect,
even with this frantic sounding page, I sit here, physically content and unmoved – safe.

Must keep my self – almost emotionless – VERY EFFICIENT.

This is a reaction to months of being unable to do anything?
My imagination and creativity seems to have momentarily taken leave of me.
Must keep thinking, writing, not just distracting myself.
I am restless though, and can’t sit still.

No good no good no good.

Creation seems born of necessity – to calm, to try to explain something, deal with something.
A routine
very easy
no conflict
nothing unexpected.


I am sorry for wasting the time I had
so removed from everything,
watching myself eat/drink/dream/cry
so distantly distressed,
in love,

I can have everything as I like it & it is easy
so very easy
and controlled.

Somewhere along the way I stopped doing things because I enjoyed them,
there had to be an END I was working towards
and it ALL became so forced
so much WORK rather than anything else.

Tomorrow, tomorrow
always tomorrow.

Wonder, childlike wonder,
it is not that we’ve lost the things to wonder at,
rather the wonder itself.

– For more in this series and the story behind it, see 13 years