like wolves. like smoke. like the rest of the fucking world.

August 10, 2010


I spend my days trying to compose something interesting to share with the world. Something compelling, touching, heartwarming; hysterical. I've discovered I'm an artisan who's skilled at drawing blanks. And I'm here to showcase my skills:

Something about my coffee tasted different this morning. I'm not sure if it can be explained logically, or if it's just some of you, left over on my lips from last night. Either way, the change is welcomed.
I'd forgotten what it was to build a relationship. I'd forgotten how fulfilling it was to meet someone genuinely amazing, then actually get to know them; uncovering more and more about them with every moment shared, and treasuring each new found fact.
I feel like my name should be Paul. But you would call me Fred.
I'm tempted to start writing a novel, and never end up finishing it. Just a little something I can use to show the world I'm more than a newspaperman. Something to remind me I still have my dignity and that I didn't trap myself in an industry I despise.
I've decided that journalism and classic literature —or poetry— are, stylistically, polar opposites in my eyes. They're pieces from two separate puzzles, but I still find myself pawing at them, pounding them together; trying to make them mesh.
And much like these puzzle pieces, I am two different entities when I write. As far as journalism is concerned, my style is much like masturbation: routine, bland, insensitive. When I write creatively, I feel consumed. Much like I do under the influence of substances. When I write creatively, the outside world is obsolete. Conversations feel like out-of-body experiences; life is just background noise and people are but roadside scenery.
I'd ride that train forever if I could.

"Buy the ticket, take the ride"
- Dr. Hunter S. Thompson

No comments:

Post a Comment