All this fancy wrapped thought does is get my hair up. Words start to wax rampant and large. I lose my measure. I forget what it is I really want to write about. I'm putting an end to it right here. It doesn't matter that I don't understand the reasoning behind things. I have certain things upon which I can draw. I should do that. Draw upon the things that I have.
I've fallen into the trap of intellectual insincerity before. I am not intelligent. Not in this post-this and post-that mumbo-jumbo kind of way. I cast it all away. It makes me crazy and it makes me grasp at all the things around me because all the things around me begin to disappear, become less real. These types of thought bleach the life out of the world; everything becomes a construction. I fill emails from very nice authors that want to say hello to me with shat out intensity. It's silly. I'm searching for a way to be less serious and to be still, to measure out calm in metered fashion, to make it build.
So, I'm done with all the probing comments on people's blogs, all the entries into mine about theory. I'm just going to read the books that are suggested to me and keep putting words on the page. Word after word. Day after day. I hope that soon they will start to coalesce into recognizable forms. That's it. Turning off the rant. Plunge the match into a glass of water. It pufts, scatters black ash. The cigarette goes back into the desk drawer. My fingers linger a moment on the handle before I close it. Linger and then let go.