suffocation. deprecation.

writer's block and i have a symbiotic relationship. i blame it for all my inspirational failures, and it suckers the artist's life out of me...

in all seriousness, i'm experiencing a severe shortage of creativity. any attempt at artistic creation devolves into a long tirade of incoherent jibber jabber, and i'm left with an increasingly mind-numbing sense of incompetency and the visual image of an overflowing garbage can in my head.

one journalist's woe is that she must sever her sentences.
truncate her expressions.
be blunt.
sacrifice all linguistic creativity for the sake of editorial clarity.

and so. i declare a rebellion, against all rational minds; against all short-spanned attention; against dull. i want to break out of my shell and emerge as a snake, slithering and sliding over syntax and sentences and similes and symbols. like a snake, i write long and convoluted sentences as long and as convoluted as i want, like a snake. i want to entrance man mature enough to make light of my metaphors - a humbert humbert for my juvenile literary explorations.

and i declare a declaration of all emotions, of all fleeting sensations, of all lasting memories of feelings.

i live to feel my sensations.

i am not a strategist nor an analyst... nor am i a consultant or a banker...

i am a writer.

oh expresser of feelings and intuitions and foreboding... that thou art such an emotional wreck.

it is the heartless that cannot comprehend oh what auras i sense of being, of identifying, of grasping what is life.

it is the ruthless that would truncate that comprehension.

if ye be shortsighted, or cruel, i care thee not.
just leave me be.