sketch

he walked in, eyes squinting, as if trying to read some very small sign on the back wall, though there was nothing there in my estimation worth straining to see. he sat down at the bar and rested his cigarette on the lip of the most immediate ashtray. it appeared that he'd been dressed by a seven year-old. this is how i knew he was highly fashionable.

largentdupoche

it's been a while and i've had a lot on my mind lately. i'm feeling frustrated though because i'm unable to express all that's been troubling me--it doesn't come so easy when it's something i care about. i can write a million songs about nothing but i can't write one about something that actually bothers me. i wonder why that is. i have to approach everything indirectly. once i recognize what it is that i'm tackling--be it through song or writing--i'm instantly blocked. i have to pretend that i'm not conscious of it, which is near impossible. there's a good hemingway quote on the matter which i've quoted too many times before so i won't bother with it here (the one about butterflies becoming cognizant of their ability to fly and thus they are no longer able to fly). i just wish i could communicate in any capacity the things that really matter--the things that affect me deeply. maybe i'm just not meant to be a writer or an artist. i have an ever-looming suspicion that this may be the case, as much as it pains me to confront that possibility. i see how writers like dickens or O'Connor are able to craft a story and load it with so much poetic detail and do it so effortlessly and i get discouraged. there's something that's preventing me from completely letting go--perhaps it is this awareness. i don't know. it's so frustrating: having so much to say and no way to say it. oh well.