I relate so much with people who avoid writing. It’s the strangest thing; The thing I enjoy most in the world I dread like the plague. I think it boils down to having nothing to say—nothing moving or suggesting that I’ve changed as a person since I woke up at three this afternoon. I “dogged” it today.
“Hope is a dangerous thing to lose.” I deleted a poem I wrote after midnight…maybe last night…as time has seemed to dissolve, which is sort of nice. It’s better than the regimented routine of always knowing every Groundhog Day to come, but those aren’t half bad either. He it goes:
‘The worst kind of cowardice
is a weak young man
who challenges
a once great warrior
decades after his prime
Oh wait… that’s a quote by Aristotle that was in my copy paste queue…
Without you
There is no reason to write
And without writing
There is no reason to live
-Phony, 28
And I’m not sad or depressed…….but I certainly was this weekend – just in case there was some earth-shattering change of plans that rippled into my soul I should know about. I’ve been really depressed in the mornings lately, and I think it is because I started taking hot showers in the morning before I go to work, so cold ones from now on, just in time for winter, which I felt its first bite today.
I opened a door yesterday. It’s funny, I’ve been on many a psychedelic or psychotic journey, and I have come to a few doors down these roads, and I always fear opening them, so I never do. But in whatever limbo occurs when there is no reason to end the night, I thought I might as well open a door. I think Aldous Huxley (me) wrote a book titled Doors of Perception, and Gertrude Stein (you) said he was just a dead man writing to Ernest Hemmingway (also me).
(ok fine, you, you crazy cat bitch!). Ah fuck it, don’t we deserve a good smoke and a laugh?
I don’t get why it feels like we all hate each other for no reason – said from the guy who (thinks he) fucked everything up.
I’ve been texting my friend in Asheville who has no water and electricity about how I’m trying to quit smoking.
I had some beautiful words and explanations about how the American dream is dead—which to me is a love story— but I dreamt about running a marathon and chilling in a hotel lobby around mile 7 or 8 instead.
I guess if I have anything to say, it’s that I still plan on motorcycling to South America and doing it for love despite love. I’m going to my first dance class on Wednesday since I crippled my feet, but who cares?
Why not?
Ben Bonkoske 