I'm So Tired (Think I'll Have Another Cigarette)

Before I started taking my writing seriously, and submitting it (around November 2009), I'd read a Spring & Summer's worth of books telling over and over again: IT IS NOT EASY. IT IS DIFFICULT. Hell, when writing a barely-readable, hardly-comprehensive, absolutely amateurish (but free as all Hades) love vignette in the form of 50,000 words for '08 NanoWrimo, one of the quotes I dug myself into a wealth of pride was an author, somewhere, I forgot who, saying that "Writing takes more mental energy than being a construction worker."

ISN'T THAT QUITE A HIPTIDE HAPPYDOOPY PICK-ME UP NOW? N'AW! :D

I'm sooooo tired, I don't know what to do.
I'm sooooo tired, my mind is stuck on you.

Ex

peri

mental!

I understand a need to be tired. When all you have riding on your shoulders is a 18+ hour timeframe to match the droning hourframes of college students and regular averagetodo 9-5 middle-lower class workers (if they're so, AHEM, lucky, as to have a job. OH WAIT THEY ARE), several jugs of coffee, and enough water to piss fallswater to help chase away the hunger for life, hunger for experience, hunger for being a famous genius that everybody in the whole wide ENTIRE world will know thy name in worship, and just plain general "Feed me, Buddhammit, I NEED A POUTINE. FEED ME."..

Well, you can't do much else aside from sit on the PC most of the day, exhausting your mental highway, can you? In the name of the future. Towards building a foundation. Grieving through mental collapse and a mind's universal hurricane bludgeoning your sense of self, values, meaning, and the despair of a strength in suicide seems nearly appealing. Nearly.

There's more than for myself to rise towards, more than the welfare of other's and their psyche to rise above. More than getting those bastard politicians that screw us over out of the White House and Parliament and DEFINITELY out of the National Federal Reserve.. No.. There's something here, but you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?

I know submitting isn't easy. Again and again. Allah knows there are people who have submitted to more magazines in a shorter time frame on their OFF time than I have in a six hour timeframe period. But it's just so tired. And I feel a Brian Jonesian complex coming on. Have for several weeks. It seems like the people I used to depend on, and thrash, trash, and sensually flirt with, have turned away during the past couple weeks. So I subsequently push away, and they push away, then we tuck in, roll over, kiss ourselves goodnight, and greet each other in the morning with blank stares, like any grand ol' marriage should! Yippee.

Something, this is all for something. The something that resides in listening to Last Exit perform "Red Light" on their s/t album. That something is what this is for. Audial Ulysses.