fuck.
im just going to let it all spill out on the carpet that's dirty anyway, so no big deal.
well i finally fell down and cast all the crowns that were never on my head in the first place into the void. im empty. the staircase is long and the number of stairs is too much to think about right now. im not thirsty. im not hungry. thought escapes me and i descend into myself and find a stranger that never left the building and he is sad and small and confused. he had everything figured out and the last thing he remembered was the hope and joy of all the things that were happening in his life before the train came through the tunnel and made everything go white. it was bliss and he disappeared into it.
now this new stranger moves into his carcass and sees the pages that were written and tries to keep the story going. but his pen is new and he has no experience in this genre of books. so he writes what he thinks will best fit the chapter. but freelancing isn't a guaranteed job and only pays well when the season calls for it. Time passes on and the book gets full, with lots of filler but plot points that are very promising for a good story.
The book has it's emotional highs and lows, character development and story arcs that would keep any reader addicted. things take a turn for the better and the reader enjoys all of these things but realizes that the story is kind of dull with no suspense. the writer is confused by the reader not wanting anymore of the good things and realizes he will have to pay for those chapters that were lacking brevity and with no audience, writers block takes it's toll.
No longer serving any purpose, the new embodiment decomposes and eventually breaks, leaving the vessel once empty again. The stranger that once was wakes from his coma to find what had become of his story. Confused and discombobulated, he slowly examines all of these things that are good and bad. A decision is made that everything is what it was supposed to be and that the story must go on. This time asleep has gotten him well rested and prepared to continue this book and make sure it is seen until the end.
It will take some time in order the rewrite and edit all of the fuzzy and messy parts, and refine and tune all of the beautiful and vibrant moments, until the story is linear and all set to go for a new audience to turn the cover and discuss all of their favorite parts at an overpriced coffee shop at mid day.
it doesn't have to make sense to still have meaning.
i turn my thoughts into strange little poems. sometimes they're about life.
sometimes they're about potatoes.
