I just watched a public television show on art therapy. I don’t know, maybe I should hang around with sick people. Maybe they would care about what words come from my tortured soul. I don’t think happy people care, they only care about getting more happiness, not hearing about your downer mood swings.

I wrote a novel once. Back then I thought people cared. I cared too. About all my profound thoughts. If I voice them my family flinches their eyes away from mine in embarrassment. I don’t know what other artists and writers are doing… ignoring that cosmic SHUTUP!! for the love of God, shut up.

I find that if you are up, people are always trying to take you down, and if you are down they try to kill you. with their words, with their looks they won’t admit to shooting your way.. the universe, as the new agers call it, is orchestrating your demise, and it’s coming, sooner or later, but it’s coming. and Lord, don’t people love to help it along..

These are the words that I have inside me now, words of defeat, words of loss.. words that make people look away.

Everybody thinks they are not like me because they have ‘coping skills’… but they don’t know that ‘like me’ is barrelling down on them like a freight train. who knows what infirmity will make it’s way to the surface, old age, or death itself will overtake them, then they will know what I meant.

But as it stands now… nobody cares.