I am in a haze. I do not feel anything. It is odd really. I felt as though I was leaving everything. I felt as I was no one. Among no one. Gone. I have to do something, I cannot just sit here fucked up and zoned on colored light.
How could I possibly write anything?
I do not know who I am, I feel nauseas, it is s the closest condition to an emotion I have right now. I wish it would go away. I am so fucked. My mind is fucked. I am in far too deep.
I rejected some toxins, I am clearer now. Now to thought. This clarity brings to mind that I should not even be typing, I find this irritating and it takes the personal touch from any real ideas. I need a fuller expressive experience. I need to write, in pen or old classic graphite on parchment, lined flatness, or textured canvas. Script itself is art; it often shows the emotion as clearly as the words themselves. Arranged sticks and swirls, displayed on sheets have their own visual appeal, if it can be translated into an actual language, then understood with some kind of validity, it becomes two forms of expression. And with that thought, I am off to get my ledger and graphite.
