The typing became some kind of alien rhythm..a dialect beyond words beyond use existing to find rather than to be.
This time of morning we sing like no one is there to hear, which means no one to judge. That’s all an audience is...judge and hung jury. Scenes are the executioners. They line us up, and going on the judgments of others decide who lives and who dies. Most die. Condemned to an obscurity that teases breakthrough but only has frustration and exile on its mind. That’s where the pain comes from. That’s where the inspiration comes from. At one point it reaches its zenith and it cannot be refused. You create some that encapsulates the severity in such a remarkable and apt way that it strikes nerve like a thumb & index finger snapping the flame out of a match head.
Then they’ll wonder where it comes from. Ex-girlfriend? Asshole boss and Shithead co-workers? Dismissive family members? The government? And suddenly you’ll realize that it’s not enough for them to be in pain...you need to have an answer. A fucking message. They don’t care about your anguish...what your creations mean to you...they only want to know how they can apply your creation to their lives. That’s why you remain misunderstood. Cause they don’t care about you.
My only answer is that none of us know what the hell is going on and we’re just looking for validation...a way to rationalize our actions and feelings and fears through medium and blame. We know and do not know nothing. The only thing that’s real to us is ourselves and because we don’t understand others we can’t really understand ourselves, so even when we’re face with the opportunity to understand what makes a person tick, all we can do is wait for self-application...but more often than not it results in misunderstanding.
We’re naively inconsiderate to our inspirations. Their pain is wasted on us.