good spells are usually just that, spells. too good to really last. after the shiny newness of the place around wears off, you are left with the same old blinking cursor, the same blank google page. writing is redundant. it feels pointless to type just to while away the time. to weave one sentence after another, making no real impression on the great mandala of time. one more insignificant speck in the cosmos, one more blog that no one bothers to read.
the fifteen minutes after lunch are spent pointlessly wandering around campus, taking one shower too many, imposing crazy small routines on yourself just to see if there is still some life left. like melting a candle on the back of your hand just to feel something besides that all pervasive numbness which is more or less all that you get, and learn to smile, shrug and deal with.
you read a poem, and then see that only about a minute has gone by, and the massive emptiness of the night remains more or less unchanged. of course, that poem remains in your mind, hitting this end and that, and you are unable to forget, almost afraid, to begin one more poem all too soon, erase those little scraps she left behind. days spent in glorious loneliness, legitimised by the library and the chinese poems of enlightenment and death. why do we eat? cakes, caviar, haikus, sam spade. this obscene mass of floating flesh, like despair's chalk white skin, or like the dead demon of gluttony in morgan freeman's se7en. our orgies are only elaborate rituals of denial, trapped as we are in our bourgeois complacent freedom with seemingly eternal time to eat, munch, chew, muse, ingest, the void, the void, the great null black emptiness rushing in kamikaze to swallow us all in its crazy feline maw.
i love you. i love you too. i'll never let you go. tell me all your nightmares. i'll kiss your demons away.i'll never let you go. i'm always here. oh c'mon now. you are only one more miserable sod among many. nothing unique about you at all. just that you've become textually reckless and are inviting a lot of smirks and cynical know-it-all sniggers in the wings. do i feel hungry already? there is nothing called a free lunch. karma dictates that you shall inevitably hurt the one you love, fuck him/her beyond all recognition into a mashed up pulp like that excreted from that juice counter wringing fragrant mangoes down the road. drink up your glass, pay, and walk on down the street. you would die to have someone to speak to, but these exchanges never happen on such easy terms, the complex mathematics of it all means that you won't be able to say what you want to, not even now, in this sentence that you type. laugh, laugh, laugh your guts out, even though the joke is on you. what other choice do you have?
anyway. this is why it is so much better to talk of dr. fu-manchu.
god. i long to get so high that all this will not matter anymore. in the end, it is only the drug that stays by your side.
i hate my voice. i wish i didn't sound so chockful of complacent, sated, easily accessible 19 year old angst. i wish i was dead. there would be a needle in my arm, and in those last fifteen seconds, i would know that it was one hit too many, and i would die in frenzied, frothing glory, in convulsions, vomiting out my blood and my past, feeling the veins in my eyes burst, with blood slowly seeping in to shut the computer down.