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I Can Write What I Want

I am free here. ROCK says this is my playground and my rules RULE! I DoNOtHaVe2UsE PROPer punK CHEW-A.SHUN. I don’t have to please anyone, not even myself. I will ignore this attempt of LittleMe to run away with this childish notion for now. Nearing complete darkness the lake is not visible from the bedside window. Rain and scrawny trees and the reflection of three candles are front stage. Enter left, a door open just enough to be welcoming and polite yet it desperatly wants to be slammed shut. NO. The door wants for nothing. It’s an object says my inner creative writing professor. I am not an object. I am objectified. I can slam the door. If I stand up and slam the door the door will instantly alert others to my inner turmoil and strife. I don’t want to alert anyone. I have decided being unneccessary, unwanted or ambivolent is my new bag. I will write and write and write and no one can take that from me. No one can take me from me here. I need me. I need to be me. And if I scream from these pages in sadness, fury or hum softly with a lonesome hint of life, I can do just that. Now, HERE! is where my life is and there will be pauses for the mundane overtures of living but I will never come out of this palace of words and real trust that ROCK gives me. I won’t be needing much of anything again. Just me, ROCK, past, NOW, a minute from now, two days from now, to the end of me. ROCK dies with me. I am not alone with ROCK. I do not know why I ever thought I was special outside of this cemented stairwell and why I desired the light everyone finds a need to grapple for. Light leads me right back down to the cold, gray and ridged walls of reality. I smile at the familiarity. Happiness is not obtainable for everyone; it’s a whole lot of work and repetition of worn out half truths and dried flowers that should be thrown out. I don’t have to be liked or loved or ever seen again, for afterall, who I am is only between me and the hand that drives my pen or the fingers which type these thoughts. My heart is much too complicated for my brain. The question I am tossing up is ( *no one can answer me* ) should I listen to my brain and write about my heart or listen to my heart and write about my brain? Now there is a cunundrum. Cunundrum. CUN. NUN. DRUM. UNDRUM. Crummy word.

What Am I Doing In Sweden? I Don’t belong in Nashville. But, I can sing.