the rain had just started falling when i got out of my car. the chilly wind made it hard to light my ciggerette.
a half of a block and there stood an uncanny resemblence to a young allen ginsberg. long and crazy were his thinning black locks. wild and prophetic were his eyes. i hadnt seen a crack head in quite a while.
we enjoyed my ciggerettes and stayed out of the rain, talking under the awning of some closed down store. i told him i was looking for a place to live. he asked me for a dollar.
i walked around the sorrounding blocks. this was capital hill.
this was the bohemian slums of denver.
i was offered drugs twice.
was this what i wanted?
ever since kerouac came to me, read in some coffee shop in what seems like many years ago, i have dreamed of the bohemian/beatnik/starving artist lifestyle.
i might not have talent,i thought, but i can fake it.
isnt that what most people do?
but the years have passed and my soul and my art have (seemingly) withered away in suburban torture. but someday, i would get away and be as reckless and adventurous as i always advertized.
my chance has come. its waiting in my lap.
my lease is up desperately soon and i still have no place to stay. this is my time, while i am single and young, to live drastically.
to live.
i find myself faced, as always, with much fear.
this time, i fear that the fear i am fearing is the fear of the truth.
the fear of my desires.
what if i want to be comfortable?
what if i really just want to be normal and in love with children and a mortgage?
what if i could live without writing?
what if the world could live without my words?
has the last few years, the years of my rebellion, been nothing but a phase?
not a rebellion from a large and diseased religous structure that stole away my God, but just in fact rebellion?
i always was a late bloomer.
maybe my sixteen happened at twenty two.
so, if its true, what now?
go back to church, put on my suit?
settle down with a cute, but quiet, opionless, girl who wants nothing more than to be my wife?
find some medium ground, perhaps.
instead of a suit a tattoo.
instead of a quiet wife, a independent thinking woman who wants nothing more than to be my wife?
i dont know.
again, i am stuck asking myself who i am.
and again, coming up with nothing.
i can't give up
though the spirit is willing.
i must still fight
though the eyes and the mind may fail.
and fight what? fight whom?
all these faceless enemies need to get a name.
religous cruelty
corporate authority
if we just had an identity these enemies would just go away.
i dont want to fight.
i just want to live.
i want to live the real life.
the right life.
is there such a thing?
am i a christian?
am i a person?
am i an artist?
am i a fool?
have i lied to myself?
am i decieved?
is there anything behind the curtain?
is there someone thats really running the show?
i need to know.
the ink in my pen has run dry.
the film behind my lens is gone.
how can i create when the world dont exist?
how can i when i isnt real?
4:49 p.m. - 2005-08-06
Recent entries:
Awake in My Tiny Cage - 2014-11-03
God. - 2014-10-27
I remember me. - 2014-10-17
The Paper - 2014-10-13
A Post About Not Doing Anything - 2014-10-12
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