deadlines piling up all around me

i'm surrounded by technology i don't know how to use. things flashing at me everytime i turn around. no wonder my heartbeat spikes like this. today was built to stress you out. i wanna embrace primitivism. i wanna spearhead the organic revolution.

whatever. today i'm just searching for rhythm. i have a need but i can't fill it without a flow. don't expect anything from me. you're making this harder. i'm making this harder through you.

i'm sick of being the type of person who waits. i wait and miss out. i'm waiting for the desperation, the point where my only option is to write that brilliant manuscript the first time around. i'm waiting to just turn into someone. something. i'm waiting for someone to knock and my door and hand me a job. i'm waiting for the world to fall in to place or the galaxy to fall apart.

and you know what? that's stupid. whatever.

the world is an act of faith. scientists weigh galaxies and piece together our universe but always come up short. hyperspace finds us wanting. we can only account for ten percent. the last ninety is dark matter. false hope. something you just have to trust exists.

and people can feel that - even the non-science folk. even the kids in trailer parks who lend no thought to the sky. they can feel that we're just counting on our galaxies not to fall apart and that there is a force out there restricting the stars, holding them back so they don't escape. they can sense the flaw of our own arrogance and the nasty intentions of our solar system. they feel it and they fear it and they start casting about for answers, for something that can meet their stare levelly and protect them with strong arms and big hands. they grope around and find religion. no matter which one - no matter if it's allah or buddah or loa or jesus who's saving them. no matter. they grope around and find religion. the answer. the belief. the faith. that's all religion is. it accounts for that. for the dark matter and the restrained stars. it makes promises people can cling to. it writes it down.

i'm drafting alter-egos. fools with names and souls bigger and better and brighter than mine. nothing fits. none of it fits. but i'm on the brink. i'm on the edge of the breakthrough and then we'll see who's laughing.

there is a story in me that's begging to be told. there are hundreds. and one day i'll get to them and you'll know, no matter what fool i cho(o)se, no matter how big or bright or nothin. one day i'll get to them and you'll know.

there's gotta be a crack. gotta be a fault.

suffering is not art.

i always knew that, but am only now coming to believe it.

another juvenile skin to be shed.