Fight The Write
Something in me wants to stop production. I hear the beckoning of creativity, but the grinds and gears of the world make me want to go to sleep and watch TV and let the night come. I want to lay on my bed and relax and just 'brush it off'.
Writing is a slog. It's a bone-rattling practice. I push everything away, from the shelves of my mind, and I put the pen to paper and I make sure it's real.
I'm sick of a lot of things. I'm sick of people not being able to grow the fuck up and deal with their problems. I'm tired of adults who act like children. I'm sick of people who are so keyed into their own psyches that they don't listen and they don't hear. They sift through your words, and they take what they want to take, and they bend the lens of life back to themselves. So you said some bad things. So you hurt someone else.
So what. The world goes on despite you and me. Stand up, deliver and deal with your childish bullshit. Be a real human being and say you're sorry because we all know that you are.
Sleep time. And once again, I give in. I beckon. I wane.
