damming my stream of consciousness

i woke up choking on a cold, long before dawn. it was eerily dark. i'm no creature of the night. nor do i just hang around until someone switches on the buzzing neons of life for me. i provide my own light. and it's natural. and it's warm. and it's pretty. ha ha.

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so i fixed me some hot tea with lotsa lemon, and waltzing feverishly i sang in exaltation: "paracetamole shall take me under its wing/ paracetamole, the end of all suffering"... then i lit a candle just to set the mood, turned on my square-headed partner and sank into oblivion with the daunting yet soothing sounds of late radiohead.

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i soon found roaming about the blog world quite galling. for it is the world of people who can write. and by that i don't mean people of great skill and knowledge, who can wield their sharp wit as scissors to taylor a language into delightful garments for ideas of true substance. i mean people who can actually press the freakin' keys to make freakin' words appear on the freakin' screen. i'm talking from emo confessions to pseudointellectual reflections on the world and from faint to picturesque. i'm talking spontaneous. i'm talking a dork who don't know much about much but sits down, signs in and types away. pours out the anger, the frustration, the confusion. and then rubs it back in. now i could never find it in my heart to patronize the above dork. because the dork has something i've forfeited: an unbiased train of thought. the dork does not get consumed in schemes and drafts and revisions. and nor do some at-times-not-all-that-dorky people i know. yet i self-destructively march on to derisory perfection, ever removing the extra words with my scissors.

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hey, i'm impulsive. impetuous, i am. i'm a goddam flood. yet i seem to be fine and dandy just damming my stream of consciousness into a festering little pond.