Cat Power

I suffer from bouts of romanticism, the kind only an artist wallows in, or a sensitive kid, or a man who has grown into something he no longer recognizes. As I struggle to make ends with being creative, to rip my soul out of this shell and let all see who I truly am, all I can think of are the words that have been already displayed, and taught, and respected – admired, when the only thing I wanted was to create them myself. I am not sure what story I can tell anymore, for all the good ones have already been taken.

Are you writing this all down?

I think my life is this big romance with the unknown and slowly I get closer to it each day

Today’s one of those days, you know, when reflecting is the only thing you have, when you become wish-washy with life and start thinking about the bigger picture(s). It’s when all you see is house after house, person and person, neighbor upon neighbor of sameness, of locality, of all the things you despised when you were younger. And then, you wake up one day and ask the all important question “Why?”

There are some things that you just don’t want to realize, because realizing could very well cause you to see how fucked up everything is. I like the quiet life that ignorance brings me, as I forget about the rest of it, the seedy part of my existence; the parts that make me think I am less of a man.

Oh, the things I have done to be happy. You couldn’t imagine the depths one would go to; you couldn’t even suggest those things to someone considered ‘normal’ and even get an approving reply.