Unintended Dusklands, pulled curtains, Upanishads, when is this all going to end? It is far and it is near. Quickening is my mind reflected off the walls that project the past around me like a film. Shadows move cold and drafty, no gravely adjectives can express. Shivering. Remorse. Loss.
Life is Theater, and I lived mine like a dream, but one day, the dream lost shape, the bubble did break, and two angry people sat alone staring at each other. I lost myself in a sea of girlfriends creating another dream, you walked away hat and bottle in hand. You still had your looks, all cherry red, and lightning fine.
Maybe you'll get to Spain. The house is cold and I don't care. Maybe I'll start writing again, but self exploration and the "journey" toward sexual liberation and intellectual freedom, make me realize that I need to vacuum the floor instead. I read these blogs about finding yourself on the way to a starbucks or in watching a baseball game, or stories of spicy hot sex on a revolving platter, which are a guilty pleasure of mine, but the wine glasses are still broke in the sink. The trash hasn't been taken out for a week, and my God if you could only see my feet..
Maybe I could get back to real literature and finally create the great American novel. But nothing anymore makes sense. Everything seems like an obnoxious graduate class where the language is so technical and coded, shouldn't it be simple? Was I taught wrong? Isn't it a fight for individual freedom in an oppressive society? To run naked like Whitman through the fields of starch automaton steel gray? The bottom has fell out like you used to say, so I turn on the T.V. instead.
My thoughts return to the anti-novel, and cherry red lipstick. I need a fix, putting on the tightest clothes I wear, going out to Island's tonight, going to drink till it gets good and loose, bubbly, and I'm going to fuck my brains out. Maybe even dream of Spain.
I Am Madame Bovary.