You Can't See.

[najy]

My brain is a surrealist movie theatre with a 2-4-1 special every night.
Come view the sordid thoughts and fears, the delusions of grandeur.

Stories of rapists who wear skin, and ghosts with sex drives.
Stories of a girl I hardly know, REAL down to her breathing.

I swim through the city drowning in devotchka

sweetheart. I miss your heart.

Comments

[kudzzuu]

You know, I'm sure the part including and following "please write, dear girl" was not directed at me at all, but it speared me anyway. I mean really, speared right through me and got stuck there. And it's a million times too true and applicable. and it's making me nauseous and uneasy.

[najy]

I've been thinking about it all week. In the shower, in my dreams, walking down the street.
About creating and not creating, life as art, etc.

You're right and wrong. It is directed to me, and anyone in a similar situation.

It makes me uneasy too. That's why I have to admit it.

It's the truth.

[pretty_thunder]

I felt the exact same way. Ever since I calmed down (learned to cork the bottle after two glasses of wine, stopped watching the sunrise because I hadn't yet gone to bed), words get trapped on the tip of my tongue, in the knuckles of my hands. They rattle between my ears. Najva, please fix me.

[najy]

two glasses, dolly? you impress me.
and fully, my girl- there is nothing I can do to heal you. No more than I can fix myself.

I simply plead and implore my sub-conscious to make itself seen...

When we shake out head's, novels- like dust- fog up our minds.

[purple_nimbus]

I was just about to comment how the words from "dear girl" on struck me as well, and then noticed how the above commenters feel the same way. I suppose there are a lot of us out there.

[najy]

Well i do suppose quite a few writers live on the LJ.

That doesn't make it any less true for us all.