These things

It doesn’t have to make sense.

The best parts aren’t there.

It’s a hole.

I’m not a poet or a writer

Notice things.

Write them down.

Connect the dots.

Two random things. Connect them.

That’s new.

What to do? What is a writer who doesn’t write? When you stop writing for yourself and start writing for an audience you’ve lost. You write not what you want, but what you think they want. So it’s fake, it’s phoney. It’s seen through, it lacks authenticity. You know, as some might say.

Then.

These things.

Help people.

Help people feel.

Help people feel what you feel.

In that moment. At that time.

Then you have something.

 

I am not a man. I am a machine. Yes, there are chunks of flesh tied to bones but make no mistake, it is a machine.

It thinks. It constantly analyzes the possibilities and selects the course of action which is in its best interest.

Physical pain registers but it is not processed as pain. It is merely an obstruction, an impediment to reaching a goal.

These things.

These things that whirr and click

And do all sorts of things.

 

Stop.

They’re all going to laugh at you.

Who cares?

What if the milk gets spilled?

The entrenched do not want to change. They do things how they do them. You cannot expect to get anywhere towing their line. Line up for your handout, this is what we get paid. That’s what you change.

If you’re doing something different, you’ll know. They’ll tell you. There will be fear. There will be confusion.

How to do it better?

Connect the dots.

How to do it your own way?

These things.