I've been listening to accoustic music
And reading poetry all night,
And I still can't come up with anything to put down on this paper.
It's been far too long
Since I've gone searching for inspiration.
Most of the time I can find it in others' words
Or in the music I listen to
Or in the people I talk to
Or in the way the people around me move
Or in day to day situations,
Or in the way everything just keeps going,
And we plan for tomorrow when we don't even know if tomorrow will happen.
Honestly, the incredibly complex and beautiful design of people's minds and souls and emotions is inspiration most days.
The way something totally tramatic could happen
And yet we still wake up the next morning.|
How our minds can't break
Like a piece of machinery or a piece of glass.
And yet I can't find one
Fricking
Drop
Of inspiration in anything anymore.
So I'm going to sit here and write about how inspirationless I am,
And then debate about publishing it,
And I'll lose the argument against myself just like most nights,
And I'll end up leaving this as a draft, and never bothering to let people see what I actually think about regularly,
Because, honestly, nobody cares.
People aren't the same as me, see.
Other people don't see a total stranger and want to know their life story,
Want to know their favorite memories
want to know what they had for dinner last night.
When I was little and we would go to town,
I used to think Ripley, West Virginia was the biggest city in the world.
And I used to see all these people, with their hands covered in scars,
Or their sad eyes,
And I wanted to grow up,
And get my own scars in the process,
And then I wanted to set up a cardboard box outside of Kroger
And I wanted to have people sit down and tell me their life story,
And then I wanted to pay them,
Because it would be such a privilage to be able to know all these histories,
All these first kisses and second loves and third parties and fourth of July late nights.
It would be an honor to forget their faces and remember thier lives.
And in my eight-year-old mind,
I had decided after that,I would move far, far away.
And I would write all these people's stories down into a book.
Each chapter would be a new life.
A book filled with people's up's and down's and successes and fails
And it would have all the little things.
It would have the late night conversations,
And the three(to five)-hour phone conversations,
And the coffee shop kisses
And the hitch-hiking accross America
And the way their roof smelled at four in the morning,
And how their son was born with his fist in his mouth
And how burrying his wife changed him forever
And how her husband had left
And how she threw a party that night,And how she was so hungover the next day.
I wanted to collect all these little pieces of these people,And I wanted to work them like a jiggsaw puzzle and make them fit,
Even though I'd never seen the picture of the front of the box.
I wanted to spend my life locked in my little three-roomed apartment,
Hiding from the world and expierencing it at the same time,
Writing a book for people who deserved it more than Harry Potter ever did (no offense Rowling).
