i heard this story today about the poet charles bukowski: he used to ask himself if he were stranded on a desert island with no hope of salvation and no one there to appreciate him, would he still write?
i think i would answer yes.
that said i'm having a lot of trouble writing these days.
i don't like where my life is.
i don't see where it's going.
all i see is nothing followed by nothing topped with nothing.
this effects my writing.
it all seems pointless.
i think i would prefer the desert island to society and the real world.
i think that its easier to write there.
here, one needs to write for something; to say something.
one needs to judge success somehow.
but on an island,
all there would be is words
and what they mean to you
i wish for...
i don't know.
words have failed.
i'm going to sleep.
12:56 a.m. - 2007-04-29
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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