Thursday, June 23, 2011

Suitcases Laced With Men

Movies inspire me to write characters, because I believe most human beings (teenagers, adults, old men) in this realm of existence are very shallow, very cold, devoid of the genetics of literature and art. They love, but do they know what love is? Of course not, and neither . . . neither do I.

Even my love, the boy who shall not be named, is shallow. The emotionless lips that entrance me touch a part of my soul that violates me. My soul says, he is not of your words, your poem, your life. And I must fight against fate. I have hope. I have selfishness and woe, and happiness within the fact that one day he could awake with the same notion as I, the same notion I had that summer ago, the same notion that killed my mother and gave birth to the sinking hole in my bedroom. Do I have hope, then? Or is my heart just too, too much alive for the day that erases it?

There is a distinct fear. I am a body. I am a cigarette. I am the ashes falling from a burning field, as though one small planet has been turned upside down, dashed upon the ass of a dying Greek god . . .

Aren't we all in pain in some way? How am I in any way special?

If I am going to write this novel before I die, then perhaps I must kill myself first. Am I the writer, or am I the person? I must tell you; both are incredibly different images.

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