Eavesdropping

There is absolutely no stability in my life. I'm weaving all these webs of secrets and lies, and now I am fast running out of places to hide. What can I do when I've let my guard down enough to have the demons peak through? They are coming faster and faster, and I can't stop them.

Reading has left me. God, I want to pick up a book and lose myself in his covers. I want to write poetry as freely as I once did. I hate this new room. Since when is it perfectly okay to trod all over me? Well, fuck all of you and the horses that you rode in on. It's not my fault that you are fucking him up. You should have thought all of that before you elected to make him a social outcast. Epic fail, family, epic fail.

And you know what? I'm proud of my grades. I'm fucking proud of the fact that I can skip class and not study and still make A's and B's. I told you this place was a joke, but you didn't listen, did you? Now I've gone and proved you wrong, and I can't even tell you.

I wish that I was concerned with bigger and better things, but I'm not. I'm trying to stay afloat. I'm trying to puzzle out who and what I am. I need to make a list, a list of things I need to do.

-- Read more. (I probably have close to fifty books in my room currently that I haven't even read. How sad is that?)

-- Think more. (I need to stop pushing away the big issues and actually sit down and figure out what they mean.)

-- Practice my fucking guitar. (I bought the thing. Now I have to practice.)

--Write more. (I'm supposed to write everyday. A poem, blog, part of Mr. Foutch's novel, anything.)

-- Work on my tarot readings. (How else am I going to travel around in an RV of voodoo?)

-- Keep in touch with my family. (I feel like I'm losing sight of them.)

-- Study. (I won't learn anything in college if I don't study the material and do the homework.)

-- Exercise. (I need to start going to yoga again, using the treadmill, something.)

-- Stop spending money like crazy.


It seems I've merely traded one set of sins for the other.

The Spider and the Fly

I'm back again. Was I ever gone? I've come back to graze upon your waters, gaze into your eyes and see what? Myself, perhaps.

I would like to think that I've grown up, that all of these signs are pointing toward a positive future, but there's just one problem. Oh so tiny and quite frail, my writing is dismal at best. I'd like to think that I am deep, one who must be read. The truth is my thinly veiled writing is not worth the time it takes to puzzle it out.

Does this deter me?
Possibly.

Will I stop altogether?
Probably not.

There is this thing inside me. This thing with Mr. Foutch. I know him, and I desire him like the serpent slithering through the Garden. I want his story to fill my head, to cloud my thoughts with a lust for him. I need all of him within me so that I can spill him out onto the page. This sounds mad. Maybe it is. Maybe Foutch is the name of the madness within me at the moment. I don't think I'll ever get relief from this. I'm out now. I'll return again to tell you that I have abandoned him, that have sunken back into my depression. Fare the well until then.