Writing a book is a precarious and mysterious thing. Yes, mystery, fucking mysterious is exactly what it is. Where the words come from, where they go, and where they end up. Just a mystery. You sit there staring at blank screen or piece of paper and then next thing you know all this shit just starts spilling out from the tips of your fingers. It’s like something battling between the demonic and the angelic has possessed you. You’re sweeting. You’re intoxicated. You’re scared as shit. You’re smiling with insanity. You’re doing everything in your power to fight off the urge to piss or shit because you know how easily this moment can fade and oh yes it will fade. One moment you’ll be pumping out prose that would make your mother cry or your dirty ole uncle chuckle and then the next thing you know it’s gone. Like I said, writing is mysterious. It ebbs and flows to tides unknown. All you know is that you want to be somewhere with a fucking pen or near a goddamn computer when it hits. All you know is that you wish it was always this way. Inspiration is a fickle bitch. When you have it you feel all warm and fuzzy. You feel in love, but the second it’s gone you’ve never felt a loneliness like that ever before in your whole damn life. Writing is mystery and with all mystery there is a longing, a pain that only the creative soul beholds. You almost want to curse the almighty when that river of ink runs dry. Runs dry just as quick as it began to spring and rush forth. Where the fuck did it go? Why couldn’t it last one more hour, fuck five more minutes and I just would have had. I don’t know. I guess I’m just complaining at the moment because I was on one hell of a roll with this one piece I’m going to share with you and then it just stopped. Just fucking stopped. Mystery. Mystery I tell you. I don’t know, but here’s what I was working on. No it wasn’t for the book I’m supposed to have finished by the end of the month after next, but like I said you can’t control this shit. It just fucking appears and you got to snab it while you can less it be but to fade into the black of memories long gone. Mystery, fucking mystery I tell you…
IM NOT AN ADDICT
First off, despite anything you fuckers may think or come to believe, I’m not an addict. You need to know this from the outset. IM NOT AN ADDICT. Addicts aren’t people, despite everything you’ve been taught or read. Addicts aren’t people, they’re figments of a bland societal imagination. Bland and fucking blind to my suffering, to those whose suffer. Don’t get me wrong… I take an egregious amount of drugs. Maybe much more than one should. Maybe not. But that’s not the point right now. Again I’ll say it. I’m not an addict. See I’ve said it three times now. Dispel this bullshit notion or put this book down and put it down NOW. I don’t have a problem with substances, just a problem with being here. Don’t get me wrong… I numb myself in more ways than one. Speed, weed, boos, etc. but we’ll extrapolate that list later on. I seek the numbing and that I won’t deny for a fucking second. There is an emptiness of purpose I face at every waking moment. An internal vacancy that has pushed me to externalities to fill the void. I’m not chasing after some high, I’m not after setting my nervous system a flame to delights. Don’t get me wrong though, the highs, as few and far between as they have come to be, weren’t ever a downer, but they were never the point of my endeavor either. My yearning is existential at its core. Some serious weeping Nietzsche, Kierkegaardian ironic laughter type shit. Ya that’s it. The drugs they’re just a means to subsistence. A vehicle that lets me cruise along with the rest of you fucks and friends. They help me get along in all the love and nihilism this world slings at one’s face. And I don’t know which of those two things freaks me out the most… But if you still doubt my convictions on the matter. I guess I understand and I’m glad for you. Your life has meaning and I don’t really mean to take that from you. I don’t want you to feel like you should be me. Think my thoughts. Mimic the Ken Sen Mantra as if it was the true. No I just want you to know… I guess I just want you to not hate me, hate me for something I didn’t ask for because I promise I didn’t ask for this particular take on life. It was cast on me like herpes in the night. Participating in an act most do, but caught something foul in the process. The act… living. The herpes… my despair. Ya I guess I could uh, would uh, should uh been wearing one of life’s many ideological condoms. Maybe I was just being reckless. Exploring to much with the wrong people and their infectious thoughts. Maybe… Maybe. But my despair like the herp da derp… It’s for life. I have it now and it burns on the soul’s crotch like a son of a bitch. Again, I’m not an addict… I’m just alive.
- Thane Hounchell