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Saturday, March 13, 2010

just write.

I decided I wanted to try the 5-min brain splatter, and flared a little of my own style into it by writing it freehand – and now typing it up (unedited) for you to read.

It’s harder to write on paper. The motions carried out with more intent and precision. Each letter a shape instead of all poke’s and clicks. “There’s art in there somewhere,” she thinks, squinting at her fifth grade scrawl in the fading remains of daylight. The ash from her cigarette drops on the page. It’s a second-class choice Marlboro Red (there were no Menthols left, except the half butts stashed in the overflowing crab shaped ashtray). “Maybe I smoke too much.” She sighs, takes another long slow drag and kills it. Time to focus on the page. A harder task than you might imagine… fighting off the Furies of sleep. Maybe this is one of those moments when sleep is just less important. When reality is better than your dreams. She's had a few of those lately, although the dreams are not much to compare to. No monsters or zombies or anything oversized and slimy… just situations. The kind that her dream self doesn’t know how to react to. Everything all foggy and dark. No stars in the black pit of a sky, no faces on the surrounding strangers. Something good and pure is sparkling in the distance… but it’s out of reach. Always out of reach. Nothing ends, or begins… it just is. Stuck in some fucked up limbo. The insignificant details are usually all that can be remembered. Specifics left locked in her subconscious, where she wants them. So she can still wake up and tell herself “It’s just a dream.” It’s not logical, and even maybe a little destructive to seek meaning in nightmares, but they say fear is powerful right? So she'd like to believe that understanding whatever micro-pieces she can get her hands on – helps her understand herself too. Of courseshe would have to go all deep and broody on you – but it’s dark, she's tired and starting to see the appeal of rocking the lonelygirl08 name with pride. Only now, after turning the page, does she realize she never set a timer. Oh well, she's done anyways. Time limits are over-rated.

2 comments:

Michael said...

Your brain splatters nicely. The Jackson Pollack of brains, I suppose. I love how coherent and poetic your brain splattering is. If you splatter most people's brains with no editing, you just get a mess.

chaser said...

insomanywaysthatstreamofconsciousnessissomuchricherthantheedifiedstuffwespewforpublicationisometimesthinkthatdreamsarefascinatingmerelyfortheirlackofmetaphoricalpunctuation

if you happen to be a billionaire...