where were the living at and how were they feeling? what were they doing and what were they thinking about while I was spending those dreadful days in tiny rooms alone, at the foot of the bed, with a bottle of whiskey and my Converse shoes tucked in the corner, when the vines of nostalgia were constricting my thoughts and I was memorializing my childhood like an ashtray, putting out cigarette butts on the bad memories too often remembered?
I felt, as if, my purpose in life was as important as the mendacity from the liars tongue. misguided down a directionless path, left astray and forgotten about like a drifter playing the part of the rejected and disassociated
shattering windows of opportunities by burning through time and space and jobs and women and ***** and drugs and brain cells and miracles and ideas and tenderness and humanitarianism and morality and conversations... lots and lots of conversations, wearing down my body, listlessly like matchsticks to flame,
but auspiciously, I found the lighter in writing, sparking a new beginning and regaining myself as I took the wheel back from driving recklessly through an impetuous crash course of life
thereβs no reason to tiptoe around light sleepers and walk on eggshells or unbalanced tightropes without the use of legs in front of searing eyes when it comes to writing,
writing is love being hustled down the dead insides of the dispassionate,
the unhappier the childhood Iβve experienced the funnier the comic book Iβve illustrated
the more personal tragedy, the better the writing
our minds at war and writing is the peace
like watching the robin and the cardinal fighting over the worm, as they slowly pull it apart