Monday blues

Its been a while that i’ve written something.

Let me rephrase that,

Something meaningful,

aside from my frequent array of short excerpts and silly blogs.

Lately, it seems as if i’ve been hiding in all the wrong places

Engaging in the wrong activities.

I’ve recently found myself pondering on the idea

Of change

Not the good type of change, if there is such

But the type where you cant simply click an undo button

or rewind back to where you came from.

A loss of touch with my identity perhaps,

Where its come down to the ultimate question of who am I becoming

To where i want to go.

Its been a while since i’ve last felt this way

It could be the excessive quantity of alcohol

I’ve ingested the past couple of days,

Or the loss of brain cells due to the

amount of times I’ve been out past 3 am getting high.

I’ve been running,

But which direction?

It depends on who you’d ask.

My mother and father would simply answer south

My dealers, north

Way up high

My friends, North West, maybe East South

Whichever way our drunk minds will allow us to.

Sorry, didn’t mean to drive your brain in circles solving riddles.

The point is, someone knows

And soon, I will to

Wether i find the answer in the bottom of my next spirit over the rocks

Or inbetween the ashes of my rolled up spliff.

If I’m lucky, hopefully in my dreams

when i finally get some sleep.

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Power of the pen and the paper

Staring facedown at the blank pages screaming out for the writers cognitive endowments. Craving the relief that the slightest caress of his pen consigns as he transmutes his beliefs into eloquent black ink. Curing it’s vacuity,  transforming it’s barrenness into a prepossessing canvas. A canvas that will soon convey it’s very own endowments to those fortuitous enough to consume them. The canvas that feeds the hungry mind of the reader, curing their craving, their vacuity. It becomes a chain reaction caused by the mind of the writer to the pen, the pen to the paper, and the paper to the reader. Each stroke of the pen infuses a thought in the readers mind, overcoming it’s blankness. It is of no importance the handwriting, magnitude, or even organization of the work. Each fragment will implant a seed in the mind of whom is in front of the page. The boon of the selfish writer, documenting in the interests of his very own intention, is the impact his writing imposes on the reader. A selfish act unjustifiably condemned as altruistically advantageous to any soul it comes in contact with. As the pen continues to nourish the paper, it waters the implanted seed and the seed then disperses it’s newborn information to the mind of the reader. As a result, the reader becomes enlightened by the work of the writer. And thus, is the chain reaction of the knowledge of the writer, generating information into the world, and finally, to the mind of the reader. The unavoidable power of the pen and the paper.