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frantic writing on a writers block

Writers block will spin me off, repeating sequences, all clouds and ghosts, fear that Iíll loose my bounce.
 My psyche largely serene. And I get panicky. Start spitting such randomness because my thoughts make no sense.
 Afraid of absence.
Of there being nothing at all. How to describe that blankness.
 Everything around my starts to scream in its hardness and physical reality, tells me there is nothing more, until perhaps I forget.
In focus, my mind ticks on in time, and everything continues.
 The line of my metal desk leg so straight. The tap of the keys. Sounds around me, from outside. My teeth in my mouth.
 My round eyes stare at the screen in front of me. Corners make tangles of black laser beams in the space, for me to limbo through, or get tangled.
The static in the air buzzes white, surf round to the corners of my vision, and carry through like a circuit,
 to the backs of my eyes where the fleshy tentacles connect to my brain parchment.
And I tip these words out, crippled in this daze, oh I must be so clean of memories, oh I must be so frail to be so slightly redundant, fair cause to topple in to crunched logic, make pools of cream jitter in a gloomy fright like the hackles of a giant animal, ruled abroad, disks spin,
 rainbows spoil tea stains train away in tearing nights splintered by relentless sound like plastic swirls within a din, speak to the dj, she makes ships sink, dismantle in to dancing shoals of rust, fleck the sand, draw together in magnetism then rise and replay.
How detailed can you prey the description of these cycles.
Thatís the way matter lures me in. Discretion within the fins and folds of the fractal fans opening out in to street corners and alleyways,
 shutting down these local businesses, outrage, fromage, the caged age, the fruit of a steel platter smeared with whales juice, oh my goodness, believe how deep can this peculiarity go, am I afraid of loosing myself, and frigid of these canons where caverns slice the way obediently from dusk to the drawing of curtains across a space unattainable to return from.
 I jest these flakes of a city forgetting its correlation with pieces of the gods.
 Oh my word. How outcasted I am. do I make myself these doom slips to make myself despair. Because I simply could write this way for ages. I find it quite fun. It satisfies the sounds in my mouth and I feel as if I am exploring my subconscious. But I feel the ends of these sentences mostly will not resurface. Perhaps that is the point of it. Pointing downwards. Pointing in all directions like a sea urchin.
 
Ran in from the foams to this language of pinpoints expansive in to projectors of worlds through the pupils I dive and roll. Words pulled from the blankness. Blank page. Symbol of the absence. And the presence. Skit out in black letters. Whether I make sense for sense to be read aloud in public spaces and form a chase back to creationÖ after utterance let these mind tunnels be unleashed in to air and matter, slowly chatter themselves in to shards of flint and dirt, somewhere in the deep cracked earth, backed slowly out from the centre, and reemerge from stems like plinths of an essence remembered, reenter the mind through the back of the skull. This voyage for completion of circularity twists me up in to strange shapes. How to decipher the mad untied ambitions of my brain. Because to bring it back to reason, or even to art, proposition must support itself, at least, to give hope to concluding itself. To root itself in placement of this world. All that has already been held and stated. My hand wants make a mockery of these slates believe I am so frustrated, and perhaps for nothing, perhaps I am simply so insane and illiterate, deranged and lazy, because I am so naive and think my ideas too great to be perceived and understood by a single person in this world. Think Iím too great for all of this surface chatter. Hail me. And I am not even alive. I do not exist in this plane yet because I tell myself I canít tie myself down. I want everything to break. And expand to infinity. Limitlessness, we are all so much greater than this fuss.
crucibelle
Written by crucibelle (Amelie Flora)
Published
Author's Note
frustration with writers block. this is frantic writing. sometimes I just write even when it makes no sense, and I feel really pretty and insane doing it and just see what comes up. in the end its...
frustration with writers block. this is frantic writing. sometimes I just write even when it makes no sense, and I feel really pretty and insane doing it and just see what comes up. in the end its all poetry right? the good the bad the horrific the logical the illogical. and I love all that doesn't make sense, because I believe it makes room for the new. things that cannot yet be expressed because we don't know how. chaos writing I call it.
lots of love people xxx
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