9:00pm. At Andre's place in Alexandria. Friday night. End of working week. Finished bottles of cider. Now onto beer. Playing drums. Listening to loud, hammering insane drum 'n' bass. Some melody in there, manages somehow to crawl out of the maelstrom, the assault.
Try to write something else. Can't do it. Frozen like a damn glacier, massive, moving an inch a year. I can see you through a mile of ice. Vague and blurry. Disappearing. Can't hear, fuck, can't think. Hear atoms buzzing in my ear. See white. Nothing. i'M FROZEN.
11:42pm. I'm home, back in my small room, my cell, my shoebox, my home. Everything is familiar, my piles of stuff, my books, my shelves overloaded, everything I see I know, and I'm starting to relax. Alone, I control everything here. The king of my tiny castle. Only bugs and insects move around, and I nod at them, Yes yes, you may pass unmolested. You are free, tonight, as I am.
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2 comments:
That's all you need [aside from Love, apparently] - a pen and a blank sheet of paper. Or a computer with an internet connection. Write at least 500 words every night. Or 1000, as my new friend Drew Gates does.
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