Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
A lie was dodged and it rot my timber a tot lot.
Not by slitting, but by knitting
He has left me bothered.
Reconciling with it (perhaps) ravaged my rattrap.
In the face of you it clambered.
- Don’t stutter, don’t stutter -
Admit to myself I too have fed the lion’s mouth.
Twice within reach my flesh muttered.
I felt it watery.
It tattooed in my arm that the past would come back to
Spell, haunt him; unearthly
Not even this ego,
This ego that adores itself,
Would take the blow with fists and spears.
We laughed a bit and skipped a beat and forgot about it.
Had it ever really happened?
Common sense my rattrap ravaged.
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