Poetic justice...

Grant Morrison writing THE INVISIBLES or Stephen King after his car crash, these people can speak of things like this. I can't, so you didn't hear it from me. My father tells me about Heinlein becoming sick when he gave it up, and Michael Chabon, in a way, wrote a whole book about it with WONDER BOYS.

I don't really think I'm doing anything new here; just cut and paste various people's names, make some sort of statement about them. Maybe that's why I'm growing so uninspired. Writing novels, Neil Gaiman points out, is something that you can't do in a new way. We have things like THE GOLDEN ASS, we have things like THE REPUBLIC (which is really just an intellectual novel, if you ask me...), and I'm never going to write something that people haven't already put down before me. BRAND NEW, in a different medium, jokingly calls this DEJA ENTENDU, already heard, and this, the title of their second album, walks the same lines as my url here, perhaps more fitting a title than the title itself.

And still, not being able to really say this, as some nobody who has never done anything, I still feel like this is all something necessary. As my serious writings have begun to wane, so has my mindset, and I've reentered depressive doors, down in the dungeons of some godawful castle. And even though I don't really see any horror in remaining there, I think this has somehow spilled over into the physical. While I am not attempting to preach THE SECRET or good ole Matrix 3 logic, but there's a certain feel to these sicknesses overcoming me.

This poem I'm trying to grab now that's still eluded me somewhat, is something about the "mycelium in my brain," a completely poetic image, like the fly in the room when I die, but something that represents these scary thoughts going on in my head. My sicknesses are not the only things that scare me, but also my future, my past, and the ratio of the two, as the former above the latter makes its timeless journey towards one, towards a fraction, towards zero.

You know, there's a feeling now, behind most of my actions, as if I've changed somehow, am changing, putting things behind me, but there's also a growing feeling of some devil growing above my left shoulder, some Philip Traum that I must fight off. And maybe this is the only way to do it.

I mean, don't quote me; you'd think if I was meant to write, I'd be better at it.