mary... mary... mary...

Mary Jane,

I miss you. I crave you. I’m a fiend for the infinite solace you once brought me. When we were together, you completely anesthetized my sorrows and consternations. Alcohol and valium pale in comparison with their meager delights. To think you can be replaced is a gratuitous and perilous infamy.

Sadly, I’m deeply ashamed that I have to flagrantly and continually reject you, which must feel something ineffable. I know my cries for forgiveness will befall deaf ears, but I beseech you for leniency over these neglectful transgressions.

But, keep in mind, without you, I absolutely feel bereft of wholesomeness, feel disturbed like a crack-head in the midst of a schizophrenic episode, feel like a New York City mole-person shivering hysterically in the dark alleyways of life, friendless.

Grieving,

a self-medicating piece of wasted potential

i heart redundancy

The relentless impulse to write has become an insufferable burden, especially since my confidence in my ability to write has been replaced by fear of rejection and callous ineptness. I feel the stuff I have written in the past was naught of excellence or eloquence. My usages of arcane words has hoodwinked readers into believing I can produce something of significance. I have come to realize that the letters and essays I have wrote, which were meant to deliver a clear, concise, and succinct message of my thoughts and emotions, were constructed out of artistic delusions and not out of literary promise. I found readers got easily distracted by my inane word gymnastics.

And, let’s not forget about my astounding use of grammatical correctness and syntax exactness, which is conducive to that of a self-medicated, half-domesticated, vision-impaired Neanderthal attempting to draw symbols in the dirt. Everything I have produced reeks of sanitation, of overripe garbage. Alas, I’m talent-less. I possess no hidden silver pen, no sharp tongue, or mental agility.

Thus, I have come to the conclusion that I might as well put down this trifle pen and seek out another, less self-defeating vocation. I’m floundering horribly here. Writing has not provided me with earthly refuge from my unliveable plight, but has doubled my frustrations. Dithering in self-debasement, I’m beginning to think that it should be a crime for me to express myself in written form (or in any form), since I envitably fail time and time again.

and, yet...

I need to dream, yet I am dreamless
I strive to hope for better days, yet they are stained with darkness
I am dependent on luck, yet I am hapless
I have a job, yet I am vocation-less
I need to be thankful, yet thankless I am
I’m brimming with ambitions, yet I’m complacent in idleness
I crave change, yet i malinger…

futility abounds

No matter how many magazines, books, and articles I read about the art of written expression, I grow increasingly discouraged to manifest my thoughts onto paper. I would rather bounce delineated thoughts, inane ideas, and prosaic concepts within the splintered boundaries of my skull than defile a blank white page with my scribbling. My fear of social derision and public mockery halts these troubling ambitions to become a writer as well. Even If I muster up the courage to write, I believe my writings will resemble a vomit of elementary words, chaotically spat on paper, devoid of significance, meager in substance, incomprehensible to the outside reader. I’m dauntingly confused, distraught. I need to satiate this proclivity to write, but remain lost on where to begin on this undying, unnerving journey.