- I am uninspired.
- A heavy writ, desolation of mind, has taken up residence upon my being.
- My blood has approached toxic levels of banality.
How many fucking ways can you say the same thing?
I have no problem with depression. I can be one of those sick fucks that actually revels in its intensity. It had better be the result of a loss of a pound of flesh or the terror of gut-wrenching despair. Darkness has a life all its own. This gray mist I find myself lost in holds no purpose.
My muse is punishing me
She is strangely absent from my pulse of creation. Her flow of vitality is a dying water main; only a black ice leaks forth.
Our blank canvas doesn't reflect the world; Our blank page does not echo the raging of mind. My guitar mocks me from across the room, its croon issues no more from strings laden with sorrow.
Why can't I just let her shuttup for awhile and take solace in something else? Why must I continue to spit forth weak mediocrity? Why do I sound like a pretentious fuck? Fuck art. I don't do art for art's sake. I am not an artist. Art is the reason I get up in the morning, but my definition ends there. You know, it doesn't seem fair that I'm living for something I can't even define.
There you are right there in the meantime1
- Out of Habit