My inspiration is a fickle tart with a terribly short attention span.
The visions come randomly. Their caress is a brush of my consciousness against a tiny sun. My green eye waters, sometimes, from the suffocating inspiration. I try and stitch a reminder to myself through my prefrontal cortex. Etching veins of melted, silvery gold and liquefied ecstasy into a little yellow space with thin black lines.
I always seem to record the memories wrong. By the time I've come back home, the words are flawed. Lopsided. Hollow. I can't infuse the essence of what I'm thinking and feeling when the arcane bolt of inspiration grounds me. Pins my feet to the floor and glosses my eyes with a reinforcement of trances.
It's the one moment a day I feel like a genuine genius. Inversely proportionate to the idiocy brought to bear when I try and conjure my Muse again. In the same capacity.
11:15 p.m. - 2014-10-08
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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