sketches

The worst thing about the hazy, dull feeling that comes with insomnia is that sense of the everyday magical is so muted. I count on those little insights to move me along. Bone weary and weird, I struggle, muddled by my own thoughts. I marvel at the mundane works of others with sad admiration. The least of what they do is still that much greater than what I'm capable of.

I could use some real inspiration, but nothing much is going right these days. I think I've been trying to get by on the passions of others. Going along to get along. The best I can come up with lately seems to be discontent, which is base and eventually dull. You can only rage against the machine for so long before it just becomes masochism as performance art.

I'm tired of television, books and the radio. I'm out of jokes and tired of bad, bad news. I need a breath of new perfume and something other than nostalgia or stability to dream about. Give me dinner, dancing and a new pair of shoes. I just want to see something new again.