Untitled I

"This world...  Goddamn this world," he thought, his hands locked, thumbs pressing against his eyes.  "If i was on the other side, i might not think this."

Bored, he lit up the runt of a smoke he'd just moments ago stamped into extinguish.  It wouldn't do him any good.  But he was trying to thwart something--change, probably, he thought.  "The devil is laughing at me."

It was a week ago, but the notion still burned.  Some professional linguist, Steve's tart, had stated flatly that poetry was, "Just words".  He thought of his life, his efforts.  Surely, she was full of shit.  Surely words had a terrific power; some shattered lives could suture, some steady could come unhinged.

Or more! he surmised.  Think, think, think, think, think.... He said to himself as he rapped his forehead with his knuckles.  The room began to spin.  He could feel the thick darkness gyrating around him.  He was sinking.  He needed something; help, another smoke, some sleep.  He tried but he could not think.

Universe

I was thinking about darkness today and our obsession with it, obsessions with authors such as Bukowski and Burroughs.  I thought long and hard about this and wondered why all the hub-bub.  My theory is that the universe is childlike, yet people wish to feel adult.  To be adult is almost to be godlike.  I don't actually find there to be anything wrong with this ideology.  I, myself, being a writer, crave adulthood.  For some reason adulthood feels both more responsible and less.  We desire independence, i suppose.  And as far as parent-child relationships go, i guess that's healthy.  I just have the half-baked sense that the universe is childlike.  The actuality is probably somewhere in between.  Don't know.