where to begin?

History keeps repeating itself. I'm seeing the walls collide and I'm feeling the pressure of a million tons of rubble falling upon my surroundings. I don't see the perfect dance floor anymore, with the silky dresses twirling. I see the blood line the walls and I see my face in broken glass. I don't truly understand what it means to be apart of it but I know I'm becoming a follower. Sometimes the followers have less work to do and less thinking to do. So i'll just watch my surroundings and make sure my feet don't slip into any worm holes.

It takes a while for me to understand the thought process when it comes to writing. I finally feel like I'm understanding where all these images and metaphors are coming from. Maybe it's the right place for my mind and all it's unknown paths and roads to some continuous vertex filled with tons and tons of ideas. I can never control when it comes out or where it comes out. I'll find myself sitting outside of a school at 9 o clock at night and notice that a couple beats will instantly drag a story out of me. I pictured this whole novel type thing that would sort of make my mind this machine that would control every thought but as soon as it ran onto 4 pieces of lined paper, it was instantly gone.


I tell myself that the sound of the trumpet beating in the darkness and the headaches will only become one with eachother and i'll be comfortable but sometimes its hard to listen to both. I never know when one will overcome the other. I wish louis armstrong would play louder and stronger with more soul when he appears in my head. His tunes are always slow and soft but I think it's because I make him this way. I always wish someone was sitting with me at the small table pretending to sip a cocktail with me because it would make the scene so much more comfortable and then the dream fizzles away as quick as I can get up from my seat.


I'll never find out why my mind does this. I'll talk to myself in it. I'll create small pictures. I'll have conversations that will never actually happen in reality. But when they wanna come out, they come out as fast as a car going 120. No one really understands what writing is to me. It takes out the stress and it takes out the anger. Even if the person I truly want to read it never does, I still feel like the words get across the page with feeling and when I read it, I no longer contain those feelings. Its just a story, and I am not the master story teller anymore. I will only tell stories of the past and none of the future or present.



So here I am once and again, and maybe not for a while spilling out what i can find in myself for this moment in time. It'll be all i got for a while.