Five days ago I asked God to forgive me for leaving my room in such a mess. I can feel him spiritually etching ‘ye sinner’ all over my ass because the state of my room is still the same.
I am no longer having conversations with my muse. It’s pointless; she is a hopeless romantic and the only way I can appease her is to be submissive. I believe I lost that particular bone in my spiraled body ages ago.
Morcheeba’s Living hell is playing in the background. Ironic, I am locked in a gate by myself. It’s a familiar region I must say….too familiar
Sometimes it’s plain and dreary, all beige. My mind I mean.
Sometimes the décor is on a sensual note.
Sometimes demons in black ragged robes float in gray skies.
Sometimes there are no skies, no clouds, no wind, no breathing; a state of suffocation and vacuum.
I’m a good person. Really I am. And no, I refer not to that ‘bit of good’ that is inept in every creature nor to the die-hard fact that we are good because it’s the acceptable thing to do.
Regardless of the vibrations that ripple my being when enjoying things (things is in a really big context here) I’m not supposed to have, that pleasant feel of being the one everybody warns you of, and sporting a smirk from defying society’s accepted norms;
I am good because it satisfies me. It leaves that warm feeling everybody talks about in the pit of your stomach. It puts a smile on my face.
It makes me feel better about myself. Yeah, and the Queen does my laundry two times a month.
All that is true, but that’s just one side of the story.
Being good is a decision I embark on because it ultimately enables me to indulge in the things I wish to entangle myself in.
It allows me the luxury of locking myself up in my room and reading the pages of failed writers and wandering souls. It allows me the pleasure of dealing with 1 less human being. It grants me access to stay in my little corner and satisfactorily stalk my countless lovers on social networks (Note: my lover’s name is Countless Lovers. Forken google!!!)
Why do I blabber? Nothing unheard of, I just want to write.
There’s no block ahead of me (though if I were to be quantifying my space-out time in blocks there would be a house)
I know what I want to write. I know how I want to write it out. I even know how long some of them ought to be. But there’s this reluctance to shower blessings of semen on this virgin of a sheet.
I need an emotion to catapult the urge to spew forth the words.
Love me, and then disappoint me.
Massage my taste buds methodically with grape-flavoured ice cubes; then stick the taste of another woman’s saliva down my throat. Write a 100-page book with a quill full of my blood.
Hurt me. Hate me. Love me. Need me. Desert me. Scar me.
Leave me at the tip of the 60 storey building just so I can familiarize myself with that urge…..
I’m the crazed artist they talk about.
The day my fingers will be in perfect sync with my mind and last longer than the longest love-making session; will be the day I bare my bottom on the stairs leading to my grandmother’s room……