“Don’t do it.
Unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
Unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.”
– Charles Bukowski. So you want to be a writer?
Friday. Another Friday.
The periodic shift of day and night that serves as the stage for the perpetual chase between the rays of sunrise and vanishing starlight of the night before.
It pains me to recollect the burden of witnessing the everyday struggles of men and women with their ordinary lives, ordinary love, ordinary hopes and fears. The unending compromises that we bind ourselves imaginatively. The rule of law. Sporting masks while holding plastic toy swords and standing on their stilts, pointing and daring us to break hearts and replace it with pin cushions.
We have to drift away. Even for a moment.
Give me the chance to bend this light and weave into the intricacies that this lifetime has in store. I can only promise you this promise that the infinity we share this moment will be bigger than other infinities.
Lest we become one of them.
Persons. Too busy lasciviously mauling their existentialist ennui.
Shooting rampant intellectualism or unbridled spirituality into their ice cold veins.
Hold my hand and find the vacuous spaces that needs to be filled up.
The human heart is an incredible thing to waste, find him/her.
And when you have found him/her, you will want infinity to start as soon as possible.