Road, river and rail.
You can't think no one knows.
I read some of my old diary, the old old stuff from a year ago, and I noticed a strong thread of pure denial. I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that I wasn't really happy, that I just kept up the appearance of happy.
And, that's fine.
. . .
I never write about art.
I'm sorry.
I just can't force it, force the thing that invades you and pushes you to make something. I wish I could explain what happens properly. When it happens, I don't remember it, I just step back and there it was, the thing that made the brushes move over the canvas, put the colors together to form.
And there's some piece of everyone that wants to own what I wish I was. As though by proximity you could have the muse as your own... she only works for me, and you need to get your own.
It's God that creeps into you, or if God is already inside, it's a knock on the door of you, it's an alarm clock that wakes up the little flame inside.
You can't know God's plan, or your plan if you are God, or what the flame is going to burn through in its course.
I'll tell you what I want if you promise not to tell.
I want someone to feel what I felt then, when I made that blind. I want them to understand, though they'll never be able to tell me with words. And I want them to leave the little piece of me that I cannot share inside where it belongs, to name its existence without taking it, to accept that it cannot be easy to live with that battered thing running around like a hyper active child.
He knew, and saw it with his own eyes behind mine. The thing that will make me cry is that I've lost the only person I felt really understood what I wanted, but couldn't give it to me, wouldn't because there is no could.
We were in a bar, the night I took my top off on a dare, and I had said, "You can never understand life until Dave Matthews moves you to move, and you understand the importance of the words."
As I took my shot, 6 in the corner pocket, Crash came on the jukebox.
He threw me a glare, "I put this on."
Someone else had to take the shot, because I couldn't hold the stick any more.
In my first whisper of hatred, I understand.
It's not that I can't play pool. It's that I don't want to remember the shot I couldn't take.
I always live where you can hear the trains go by.