waves on rocks on the beach

Time elapsed, time behooves me to write once again, so I write, but not with form or content in mind; writing for writings sake is the compulsion. This isn’t a block, but thought flowing freely from my finger tips; this isn’t a meditation on the craft, but a masturbatory release. Coherence and structure are lost in this moment. What is written here is comparable to stretching one’s muscles or a platter of appetizers. The mood is not set. I’ll set the mood when I start, this is just a warm-up. It’s all down hill from here. I have nothing but this short distance, a brief spasm of misunderstanding to show for twenty years of breathing.

I feel like my mind is constipated, like there’s something in there, but I can’t push it out. Or maybe I’m just empty inside – empty and longing. Sometimes I worry I don’t have a personality and other times I worry that I do, but he’s just negative and cynical with out many redeeming qualities. I take that back, I don’t worry. Sometimes I dread, but not about things like my recent concerns. What it comes down to, I guess, is that I’ve never asked myself what I would do, or even thought of an answer; sometimes I just do, while others I do nothing. For the most part this has kept me content, but with the distinct flavor of burnt toast (and sour hemp).

There’s nothing quite like the flick of lighter, rumble bubbles, wheeze of intake. And the attitudes that go with it, reverence to nihilence to giggly to detached. The seekers and the searchers join those with the settled in one chill, but revolutionary act. Sometimes released, sometimes grounded, but always the same. Oh how vivid.

How do you drive around _in_ circles?