Ramblings inspired by manic frustrations on a sleepless November night.

I just wanted to share my madness or... whatever the h*ll this nonsense is.

The rhythmic rush of the interstate is polluting my ears.

18 wheelers rush anywhere the hell away from here.
It’s never-ending noise.
Maybe I should drive a truck but I’ve heard it said,
“It’s no life for a woman – ya’ know,,,
truck stops, prostitutes and brutish – foolish, sexist men.”

This November night past 1 am
someone’s in a hurry. Maybe they’re angry.

Maybe their motor’s turning - they’re movin’ to some
dare(ish) careless feel-good, foot down – pedal
wild streak in their heart, beating quick-like.
He’s got some supped up auto paid by mommy who has a work ethic
unlike him. Pshht, millennials. (?)
Then again, her nose is upturned – no better off.
Someone’s out their drinkin’.

An angel hushed, “Don’t leave – not yet”
I’d be somewhere, where the sound can’t touch.

Maybe I’d get used to the tinnitus.

I’d be lonely in my obsessions.

I’m a slave either way.

The world keeps calling – says, “join me”
But, I don’t want to be here. “Want”
Want. Want. Want.
Selfish or what?
I just don’t care.
(“But what’s a life of service?” Little Voice questions.)
I can’t give in to this fucking game.
I’ll eat cans of beans, spinach – ravioli with a plastic spoon (the same spoon more than once).

I’ll live in the back of a pick-up truck.

I’m not fit for society.

But I’m here, so - fuck.
Maybe it’s just perspective anyhow.
I’m probably living in some delusion that evolves with me with age -
some excuse to rationalize my instability.
Take me as I am – I am aloof
Impulsive
Sensory craving
Undisciplined
Delusional
Irresponsible
Careless
Inattentive
(That one’s better off ‘cause I ain’t easy.)
I want to create
I want to speak
I want to break the Fucking noise.
I don’t think anyone cares what it means to be human anymore.
We’re forced to be absentminded shapeshifters
fitting business models and wearing t-shirts with branded labels
selling perfume to cover up the shit that we’re putting out.

So, what’s all this talk about art?
What’s its place?
And who gives a fuck?
Who even reads anymore?
Who has time to give a fuck?
Who has the energy to give a fuck?
Someone with an inheritance?
‘Cause I’m sleepless trying to give a fuck and survive.
I could give up. I could give in.
I could spend all my time making money to watch it dissolve into nothingness.

I could come home and escape into another
dimension through a screen that feeds me a story of some life more extravagant, more interesting than I could realistically (statistically) attain.

I could do what most people do.
but I can’t.

I can’t stop dreaming.
I’m terrified to stop dreaming.
I don’t want to waste my time.
I haven’t watched but like 5 movies this year.
I don’t want to stop wondering, to stop thinking outside of the box
to stop coming up with ideas (however few I pursue)
to stop imagining that there is greatness within me –
that I have a duty to contribute something to this world.

I can’t stop.

It’s a madness, a convulsion, an obsession.

And it has consumed me.

And because of this, there’s no place for me in society.
Maybe I’ll be like the rest and
the idealist in me will get beat out
and my eyes will grow listless
and it’ll be simple, I’ll be simple.

Site where I got the image from

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