stranger

the creative impulse has been stifled. i no longer know who i write for or why i write at all--why i bother to create or what i'm trying to communicate. i see images--millions of images--i take them in and do nothing with them because i am too overwhelmed. they get caught in my throat or like a foreign object in my brain they slowly spread their idle infection.

start off with an interview.
start off with a neat little phrase.
develop the story from there--let it write itself.

i want to create something pure
something genuine true and honest
but i have ideas about how it should look and feel in the end
and i'm too afraid i think to
just write
the final product never matches the envisioned ideal
heightened language: a tell-tale sign of schizophrenia
i am unable to say what i am thinking
without carefully weighing each word
for affect
let's hope i never find myself in a situation where life or death
means talking
means writing
means communicating

let's just hope that never happens

i sometimes worry that i'll be wrongfully convicted of murder because i am unable to tell my side of the story intelligibly

i am too stupid
too distracted
to keep myself out of trouble