I don't know how to write.
Maybe loving words, and the desire and ability to
know how to shakily string them together
is more curse than blessing.
Never is it "look, a grey day,
I see it with my eyes."
It's stress about about how to
capture/encapsulate/transform and/or translate that grey day into something
you can see,
something you can be inspired by,
into something better/more than it actually is. (What it is
is good, so good, so very, very good
but not good enough.)
I must make it make you ache.
My grey day (the one outside my window now) has to make you (yes, you!) ache.
(Otherwise fuck you, and fuck you, grey day!)
And if I write about the grey day and you write about the grey day...
I have to write about the grey day better than you write about the grey day.
And better than you write about the grey day.
And especially better than how YOU write about the grey day. Because YOU write really well, and really quickly and a whole lot of people know it, and everyone tells you so, and I basically hate you for that, and I hate me for that, because I am jealous and petty. So I say screw you and screw me and screw writing (again and again and again) and
suddenly it's ten years and hundreds of South Park episodes later.
I have no idea what you're doing because you're long gone, but
I know what I'm doing and I'm long gone.
I can wonder about what you didn't do, but I know exactly
what I didn't do.
So there.
Wait.
