I chose to write poetry today but I was tired and the poems arrived slowly like bruises. I ironed them into prose until I coughed.
My negativity is nothing but an unwelcome clamour for attention. I bore myself to death. The heart of literature has turned cold for me these last few months. I am beginning to wish for an escape, the one thing I hated and reviled. There should be nothing to escape from.
There should be no need.
There is always a need.
Social strata require it; we are the enveloped mass, willing and salacious, undercutting emotion and depth for our blessed survival.
Ha! Survival! Even survival is a joke. We are threatened by nothing and yet survival is the priority. It mocks our libidos with an angular, asinine pose and stalks the development of feeling until love is no more than a hollow cascade of self-praise.
With my finger I trace along the wood grain contained within the surface of my desk. Concurrent thoughts glide, silken, alongside my finger… a dotted line of thought, a clear plotted path that I choose to ignore. This is a heuristic dwelling.
I wish for a lover, a lover for all times! My bed and heart and fridge are empty.
[Silent persuasions appear here as a bracketed postscript.]