Name: Anonymous 2012-11-04 13:55
Stream-of-consciousness type writing:
Another day done, at the damnable computer. No work done. No life. Nothing. There's nothing worth anything in the withered husk of flesh in this chair.
While I thought. There can be no inspiration from pain. I guess it's like the hick anselemo says: it comes out in your lyrics, man!... . The only thing you can write about is your addiction, your drug.
Not even any depressive bullshit about nihilism or whatever. Or even the 14-year-old's dramatic self-centered agony (chanelled into writing always of vampires or Dark Elves®) No dark content with any focus. Just the damnable addiction. Which is no longer even a little sweet.
My will is eroded. And soon I will pay for this. My life is escaping me. I am escaping life, and I that pay for that too.
I break the hearts of those around me without even caring more than a fraction of how I care about nursing my addiction.
This stream of consciousness was supposed to spark creativity. I had some ideas in my head, forcing some bullshit prologue to some cheesy sci-fi drivel or something. But now we have this instead.
There's no prose. No significance. It's on the level of a 12-year-old. Self-absorbed and hipster trash. But dreeping of bitterness and cold skin.
Another day done, at the damnable computer. No work done. No life. Nothing. There's nothing worth anything in the withered husk of flesh in this chair.
While I thought. There can be no inspiration from pain. I guess it's like the hick anselemo says: it comes out in your lyrics, man!... . The only thing you can write about is your addiction, your drug.
Not even any depressive bullshit about nihilism or whatever. Or even the 14-year-old's dramatic self-centered agony (chanelled into writing always of vampires or Dark Elves®) No dark content with any focus. Just the damnable addiction. Which is no longer even a little sweet.
My will is eroded. And soon I will pay for this. My life is escaping me. I am escaping life, and I that pay for that too.
I break the hearts of those around me without even caring more than a fraction of how I care about nursing my addiction.
This stream of consciousness was supposed to spark creativity. I had some ideas in my head, forcing some bullshit prologue to some cheesy sci-fi drivel or something. But now we have this instead.
There's no prose. No significance. It's on the level of a 12-year-old. Self-absorbed and hipster trash. But dreeping of bitterness and cold skin.