That's what I hear this little voice in my head say. He's got a certain tone in his voice like he knows it all. And not a know-it-all kinda tone in his voice. He really does know it all. I have these urges to want to say, "Okay. I'll go up to my room and grab a pen from that mug that cousin brought me back from that time she went visiting colleges and has all my pens in it and then I'll grab a notebook from beneath my futon and go back downstairs and put word to papyrus." He can be somewhat persuasive.
Of course, these are just urges. Wishful thinking, even. Yet to be materialized. Will it ever? I don't know. But damn that voice has been telling me the same thing for some time now. It's become this mantra in my head. Visions have even begun to flash. I'm sitting at my desk late into the night with a lamp on, pen in hand and a page full of nonsense. It's somewhat romantic like distant lovers wishing of being with each other on the same moon, in the same instance.
But like these lovers' predicament my pen is cold. The pages of my notebook blank. I haven't been to my room in days. I've been sleeping on the couch. I see the stories in my head. I'm laying wrapped in a blanket with a pillow in my arms instead. There is no lamp but moonlight creeping through the cracks of the window's blinds trying to penetrate an already consuming darkness.
Sometimes dreams hit me hard and I open my eyes and notice the blankness of the white ceiling. Is it taunting me? If I was still a visual artist and had some cans of paint I could prism that white. But I am a visual artist. I have a blank page and a pocket full of words.
I close my eyes again and receive more good news from Calliope. What she whispers escapes me.
I'm drunk off the idea.
Of course, these are just urges. Wishful thinking, even. Yet to be materialized. Will it ever? I don't know. But damn that voice has been telling me the same thing for some time now. It's become this mantra in my head. Visions have even begun to flash. I'm sitting at my desk late into the night with a lamp on, pen in hand and a page full of nonsense. It's somewhat romantic like distant lovers wishing of being with each other on the same moon, in the same instance.
But like these lovers' predicament my pen is cold. The pages of my notebook blank. I haven't been to my room in days. I've been sleeping on the couch. I see the stories in my head. I'm laying wrapped in a blanket with a pillow in my arms instead. There is no lamp but moonlight creeping through the cracks of the window's blinds trying to penetrate an already consuming darkness.
Sometimes dreams hit me hard and I open my eyes and notice the blankness of the white ceiling. Is it taunting me? If I was still a visual artist and had some cans of paint I could prism that white. But I am a visual artist. I have a blank page and a pocket full of words.
I close my eyes again and receive more good news from Calliope. What she whispers escapes me.
I'm drunk off the idea.
