Cache creativity, cache reality.

“To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.”-Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

I'm struggling against my own creativity.

Every day, it is the thought,
"Today, I need to get my shit together."
"Today, I need to write something. Play something."
"Something."

And, every day, it is the feeling,
"I'm so tired."
"I'm so sad."
"I'm so lonely."

I'm very inspired.
And very uninspired.

I'm building a collection.
Always.
The collection changes from day to day.
But I do not forget.
I do not slim down.
I do not erase.

It is a library of thoughts.
Of regrets and empty experiences.
Slipping interests.
Fading words.

Things that inspired individuals in the past
To write words that became great.
Words that held their meanings through the years.
Words that feel like crumbling, permanent pillars
Of our cultural currency.

I think that part of my problem
Is that I believe the expression of these particular emotions and ideas
Is a cliche in itself.
It's been done before, over and over.
It's useless unless it's totally unique.

I don't want my mansion to look like everyone else's.
I want mine to be unique.
Because we all want to be unique.
Special, every one.
Rich and famous, every one.

It'd be a betrayal of myself
To attempt to publish or present
Anything less than something I can totally stand behind.
Irrational, perhaps, but respectable by nature.
I am my own motive. No one, nothing else.

And it is myself that I conceal.
And myself I will present.
Myself that will conquer.
Myself that will survive.

I'm still certain that the best revenge
Is the lack of further acknowledgement of past events.
As much as I would like to tell my own tragedies,
It's best that the people involved are just going to slip into obscurity.
Where they belong.
As I've said before, though,
Tragedy is easier to write about.

I still feel like my throat was slit a month ago,
And I've been bleeding out in a serial killer's basement ever since.
I feel like a living murder victim.

I'm stuck in a limbo I didn't invite.
There are days of anger,
And there are days of sadness.
But, all together, there is a lot of nothingness.

I feel like a ghost,
Becoming increasingly inconsequential and forgotten
While in the prime of my life.

All the witnesses of my past greatness
Are scattered across the world.
And the days in which I was celebrated seem to be fading into a distant past.

The search parties,
Try as they might to find me,
To rescue me,
To bring me home to recover,
Have yet to successfully locate me.

Sometimes I feel as though they've seen
But not comprehended
And perhaps called off the search too soon.

And then there are times when the trapdoor is opened.
And the murder site is returned to.
To put lipstick on slimy lips
Or caress the silken, slipping hair of the many trophies there.

My lifeless eyes linger on those of my killer.
Try as I might to forget how I once saw them
And focus on my own destruction's influence on them
I mourn the loss of what I thought was a growing love.

What instead became a slaughter
That rendered my meat rotting and useless.
Which is something else entirely to mourn.