Why should we? And better yet, why am I so afraid of writing about it? Why am I afraid of anything? Why! I’m just going to write this shit until I’m not scared of it any more because Christ knows there’s better stuff I could do with my time than just sit around scared all the time. What do I want to do? What am I afraid of? Am I afraid no one’s going to read it? I keep on with my journal and I keep telling myself one day in the far future someone will dig it all up and love it and know it and know how I feel, and that it will help them.
I sit here writhing in my seat and pissing my life away in fear of living because I’m afraid of my self – because I’m afraid of exposure and I fear the judgement of others. My problem is I think there’s opinions which matter more than my own. Of course I listen to people and take what they have to say on board – I’m eager to hear what they have to say! – but nothing they say is of value except insofar as it gets me to change my own mind. But I’m sick of writing about my self! I’m sick of so much – I’d be sick if I weren’t! – but most of all I’m sick of my self and I want to be over it and I want it to stop and to go away and get out of the way so I can enjoy things! No more sickness and worry and no more sweat and pain and frustration – just power! Sheer power, screaming power – the scream is what I want to live, the scream and laughter. And I will be wind and fire and crackling energy, sheer screaming force and fury and power and power and power and power and power, tumbling thru earth and through corridors, halls stripping bare floors and walls and then scouring ceilings and scouring wind and flesh and word and light and made pure and clean blazing light – the wind full of lights and expression and force moving forward and forward and forward momentum, racing to moon and on moonlight and stripping it bare and then living there clean, fresh and clean, fresh and clean, fresh and clean. Inhaling thin air and it’s fresh and it tumbles thru veins and it strips me away and I’m clean, and the light is inside me, the light which is air, which is fire and wind, and I am convinced that if I keep writing and if I can keep writing without tumbling off into shithouse poetry which is necessary, so necessary, then I will come up with an audience. Any thing written long and writ hard enough will be read, and any thing which is read will be read and reread and considered and thought about and I will write this until it is out of my system. The only way out – the only way there has ever been – is through.