A paragraph dictated directly from the chaos of my own thoughts:
Regret, this is an aspect of art. Something that makes you human.
The act of Burning Bridges is (a) sadly absurd but important sword to wield this day and age, and I’m sorry, but it’s true: With their pop psychology and passe’ metaphysics, burn the posers down and move on, unharmed. One must carve down with bare fingers if it comes to that, into the nothingness below where your ego is crushed by the weight of true love, and just like that, my embarrassment, snapped, just gone; I’m as human as it gets.
Once again, Honest, forgiven, are my regrets.
Now, back to the words, back to the trivial hell of a writer turned programmer manipulating the very page he hoped to have his poetry casually waltzed with a held hand across the paradox of mass and within the fibers of actual paper, something, to be, remembered upon.
Fuck. That reminds me, driving home I was thinking of a song I wrote called, ‘Truck Driving in Jerusalem, Dying Rainbow, Under Bridge, at Midnight (Oil, Canvass, On Pavement)…
…Ha, maybe too long for a song name, but as I truly do believe, that if you want to make something that has never been done before graced with the honesty of the human spirit, the will to survive, well then “saddle up” as they say, because if you strive for either greatness or death well then you have to live your own dang life and fail, fail, again, over, and fail, because really, just like the madness of nature, it’s all trial and error anyway. Respect the trees. Peace.
Now, for a song.
Adventures In American Writing 