The Wanderlust Misfit

Don't Run From Anything, Run Towards Everything

Rambling Splooge

Bit of a hiatus. Sorry, but my apologies are insincere. I’ve decided to write this blog like a letter, like I’m addressing a good friend who happens to be someone I don’t know, basically bear all and tell everything and no sugar added. It’s train-of-thought, stream-of-consciousness, I’ve been reading too many Beatniks lately. Also I was terribly unhappy, not terribly, but I was out of money and couldn’t find anything to drink, ran out of cigarettes and even scraping what little resin was left in my bowl proved little fruition. All of this is pretty gross and indicative of my priorities. Again, I’ve been reading too many Beatniks lately. I’ve always been rather severely influenced by what I happen to be reading at the time and this all is surely symptomatic, so I’m going to push through the rest of this book real quick.

I’ve begun writing a short story about finding possibilities outside the structure of society, that on the fringes exist endless options. I want to break away from realism for this, to show the ‘possibilities’ that are out there and it’s coming out rather trippy-strange. Like the bright colors of the hippy-acid era but draped in nighttime dark sparkles. Or something. But I want to write it stream of thought, the way Kerouac wrote from his subconscious. The thing though, writing this way is only writing through the Universal and the flow, and you lack your own will in a sense, this meaning you aren’t balanced and aren’t writing with free will. So the challenge has been, and this is what I’ve been going over during this hiatus, how to write through the flow, by directing the flow. I’ve been thinking one way to do this is to create the story in your head, like a memory of a structure you wish to sculpt. Create the story and store it in your subconscious, then write the flow. This way you’ve created a flow and resigned yourself to it. Created a probability wave and focused on it.

The last couple days I’ve slept a lot, I mean 12 hours a day a lot.  I don’t think it’s depression, but maybe a falling out of the intense energy I want to focus on writing and everything. Which is why I’ve decided to live in Brooklyn for a while, hoping I can find some people who think like me and, hopefully, we can work together to develop our writing. It would a tremendous boost if I could surround myself with a group of like-minded individuals and we all collectively pushed and shoved energy around. It’s tough staying excited in such a solitary profession, I wish to remedy that. Back to sleeping, wrapping myself in bed and sleeping all day being a little nocturnal mole (I’ve really become quite nocturnal since DP Dough working all night till 4 am). I can’t figure it, like I’m in love with sleeping and I have no qualms wasting the sunshine, although when I do I feel depressed about it, though a lack of sunlight has been shown to induce depression, that’s what seasonal depression is anyway, not enough sunlight during the winter. I’ve gone nocturnal before but always during drinking binges and there’s always been people to drink and sleep all day with. Writing is lonely. I wish to remedy that. But I was thinking about the Universal and Individual maybe having reason to do with sleep, that you need to be unconscious and full in the flow to keep balance with the Individual, I don’t know, speculation, but sleeping to me is like wrapping myself in mystical warm rivers that ask nothing of me flowing with prenatal fluid and keeping safe and undisturbed. Speculation.

I’m also trying to buy massive quantities of drugs on the Silk Road to keep a daze binge, real cheap shit to temporarily lose my mind and I’ve read too much Burroughs.

I promise not to ramble so much in the future, but the blog was left alone like an untouched prick and everything got built up backed up and everything had to splooge out all at once. Maybe that’s a good way to write, something to think about anyway.

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