So I remember this jackass saying something about how poetry has to be this formed fucking bullshit and how all the fucking elements have to line up to create this most magnificent painting with all the right shades and hues and shapes. Fuck that. I suppose he missed that scene in Dead Poet's Society where poetry was born and rules were ripped out of the book of his precious admiration.
Fuck all of that limiting nonsense. I still say that it's all poetry, most especially the things that never get written. But even still, anything that is motivated from any place primal or articulate or emotive or hell even just empty. All. of. it.
Where was I going. Oh, nowhere really, just freely writing some seriously non poetic bullshit because I feel like it and I can't be stopped tonight. Not tonight.
I used to think there was some value to it. While I'm not sure of worth, or any other type of measure I am always sure that I knew more three years ago than I do now. Before that it's all just plot points and story line.
The day my car was sent spinning into smoldering oil and crushed glass I remember that my life did not flash before my eyes. My life has been all together as meaningless as any ones, but every thought I ever had that I ever found to have any relevance... I had them all all at once... and it's still fucking with me.
The being trapped was awful, but only because I had this underlying urge to get to the place where I could make sense of the cataclysmic event that had just transpired behind my eyes.
Funny how I still haven't done that. Funny how I spend so much time living and surviving and trying to enjoy something that I still can't figure out how to articulate a halfway coherent conceptual thought. Funny how I'm still better with ink than I am with verbalization. Funny how the look in my eyes remains unchanged and as crazy as ever despite my new found apathy.
Funny how this isn't helping.
Funny how there's nothing to be helped but I use the word helping.
Funny how easily we forget.