wondering ideals

Do you ever get sick of it?

I mean, everything happening so fast? Maybe it's my mind or maybe it's just the human condition brought unto us by a divine creator, or just human nature. I'm trying to write another book, but I can't finish where I first started. Idiot Savant just flowed, but Lithium Darts is just so mind racking. Then again, I haven't had a full day with it yet.

Is it all happening so fast? I am writing, which is good, but to whom, no one comments, no one cares. I hear someone mention it in the outer world and my thoughts flow to my life and my work. Have you seen this? Have you read it before it has been written? How can I think when all virtue is lost?

Maybe trap myself indoors and just type like a typing madness artist. What will I forget in the outer world? What will be remembered? We all have inner worlds and outer worlds, our feelings inside and how we project them. I've been like Buster Keaton with no emotion on his face and then I laugh at something, so simple, so divine, and I look weird, and people think I'm crazy, or so I would think.

I look like a woman for god sakes, my eyelashes, my lips, I'm becoming a ghost. Maybe that's the way it should be, work incognito, or just write to you, my faithful mise en scene,  you are what I view. I think it's living conditions as well, more drama, more daze, more yelling and screaming, more nonsense. Why? Why do I put myself through unhappiness? I want to be happy but I can't, I find something negative in each moment, my being-in-the-world. My dream girl, the artist, one that will walk side by side through my scattering and nattering and hours of conversation on the the phone.

It feels like I know nothing yet everything. I feel hopelessly in ruins with tears running down my cheeks. I am not old, just wise, or at least that's what i tell myself. And i'm telling this to you, for you have seen my face and I have not seen yours. It's almost voyeuristic in a sense, you can find me, but you are anonymous. How can I breath walking down the street? You knowing me and i not you. A man who cannot speak is in trenches, and I am think man, lisping the words to her.

Sometimes there's confidence, and I like these times. I feel like myself, before I aged and became wise. Her smile, the laughs, nothing could go wrong, and then i say something awkward and it's over. Like a samurai with his sword. A cut through the body, stunned, stuck on the asphalt with questions of what could have been and what happened? Then I cannot smile anymore. A car would help or a solitary room. A sense of freedom instead of the continuous day to day grind of my limited mobility and the sections of how my day goes.

I live four lifetimes each day, maybe more. Hellos and goodbyes, then sulks. The faces look familiar but all i see is anxiety. All i taste i nervousness. And dry. God forbid I grab the bottle and succumb to ignorant bliss so to say.My hands at my sides, like a prisoner, man condemned to be free. Nip Nip at my liver. the hemlock speaks the truth. Where is the agoras?!

Gg