Point Blank

In my most natural activity, I am fluid.

At this point (post a writing period) I've never felt, physically, so far from human; so close to water, and everything seems so smooth...and right. Could it be wrong, that at these moments, I seem so incoherent and not wholly here? As if,in writing, my emotions, make me feel sub-human; but, these raw emotions, once recognized, have an uncanny ability to arouse a superior, yet humble, belief in self progression.

I wouldn't, yet, call myself an artist, but artists are burdened with a mindset to progress above their self. To want to visualize themselves outside of their skin already knowing what's beneath it; and if this new creation, this, perhaps, new creature, is anything more than just a stable, societal convention. Meaning that to submit to our interest and raw desires is to exist in a completely unpredictable way.

More or less so, this is just a result, or a feeling, post intense writing. In which you're whole being seems like a mass of conglomerated contradictions and a bit ethereal.

Monday, December 21, 2009