Collapsing into a tumult of voices screaming to the top of their lungs what their passions are, making their way through the streets of my subconscious, mere ghosts of unspeakable creativity continue to linger in an obscure succession of boring lectures, following what was better known as knowledge long ago. They continue their fast while still on the hunt for a succulent piece of meat to carve their teeth into. Not being able to find it, the only thing they do is tip that jug and choke on the nectar of the fruit of this land. Nothing stops the beverage of Bacchus from staining more than just their white silk.
These pretentious beings of unspeakable malice habit in the darkness of my thoughts, obstructing my sight from the simplicity in which beauty lies. Some dumb pride hides itself in this burning ring that approaches my fingers with every breath. Surprisingly enough, I keep feeding this vice every now and then, when things get more out of hand than what I like.
Some atrocity has been committed in the backyard of my own house; the corpses lay stiff in the cold, next to them, five holes, seven feet deep. The murderer was tempted by the trees, as they undressed for the storm that was a-comin', his accomplices stare at me in defiance across the yard and I know them all. But the reflection in the window scares me the most.
Creative is my own judgment, as it never fails to feed my self-loathing. Smart is my hatred as it always finds its way back to my heart. Genius is my jealousy as it always beats my good will. But the murder of all my senses, the biggest traitor of them all, keeps on being my own self. Because no one else rules them but me, and no one else stands a chance against them but me.
Alone I proceeded with my march, with undeniable madness I smiled at the murders of my innocence. As I left I thought I heard the voices of the hills all the way from here in the valley, they whispered in the touch of the leaves in this dark forest full of traps.
Suddenly Kerouac screams in my head--climb that goddamn mountain!
So I start my approach but it only gets bigger and bigger as I draw near it. Doubt creeps in from a near distance, but the stallion in my chest stands up and neighs in anger, so I march on--I don't want to make him mad.
Is too early to stop and too late to run--this pace is good.
I march on until I find it, an old cabin rotting in the deepness of the woods. Winter never ends in this part of the land, the fire burns and burns, warms the stiffness of my muscles away. As this bag of bones lays in the floor, my legs shake in desperate need of rest, I ran out of coffee two days ago--I should've packed more, I tell myself as I proceed to laugh in despair.
Nothing has changed on the outside, these rags have held on well enough. Two bottles weigh in the bag--good enough for one more night.
The sun hit me in the face, I woke up with a clear mind and a heavy bag--still heavy?
I dropped the dead weight, sparked the fire and continued my march. I was tired of living on my past glories every night. Remembering the good times every time the bottle hit the floor and echoed on the inside. I was tired of living in those past glories from all the times I fell down that endless succession of rabbit holes that I enjoyed exploring.
I was tired of living in my past glories when I left. But now I'm just tired.