portrait of the artist as a young sham

tony accused me of sometimes reaching a point where i kill the artist within. i can't be guilty, because there's nothing within but a hollow shell, a hollow hell with walls of plexiglas and no escape, ever, no quarter, no absolution no forgiveness. i lay down to sleep at night and my past sins dance through my head, salt-coated sugarplums, each waiting for me to bite, to sink in and savor the taste of tears and blood.

"this machine will will not communicate these thoughts and the strain that i am under" -- radiohead

artist? hardly. self-important scribbler (typist?). one of the pathetic hordes who slap on self-stick labels reading "writer" and hope no one notices that everyone else is doing it just as well. make enough noise about it and people will believe whatever you want them to.

in another time, another country in my head, i remember sitting for hours plugged in to a walkman and a keyboard, typing madly away without a thought about the people around me and what they were doing in that cheesy computer labs with its rows of vt100 terminals. when it rained, the roof leaked and the whole place smelled funny but god i miss it, miss that life, miss being belonging existing tasting reality and knowing it instead of spending long nights staring down a bottle of pills. i'm not supposed to be like this. i used to be witty and gentle and wise, a shining example of what seven years of sadistic abuse and mindcontrol can do for your character.

now i just hang out around the fringes of who-i-was, who-i-am and cry sometimes. when the tears won't come, when i can't make the nausea subside, when i'm completely alone inside myself and know how futile it is to even think of freedom, there are always razorblades and hot metal to take me away for a little while.

i want my life back. i pissed it away and never realized what was happening. i wasted whatever talent i had. "faith, you're driving me away, you do it every day; you don't mean it but it hurts like hell. my brain says i'm receiving pain, a lack of oxygen from my life support, my iron lung." -- radiohead

god, this doesn't make any sense. i'm just setting myself up to be flamed by assholes but the words need to go somewhere. i keep hoping if i write it all down it'll slink off into the night and get run over by a train.

i have to clean the house now.

--
sine | deb
"you do it to yourself you do
and that's what really hurts is
you do it to yourself just you,
you and no-one else
you do it to yourself." -- radiohead

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