Muse

The lack of muse inspires the critical thinking aspect of my active mind to create or atleast participate in the creative process in other means than my default self-being a textual storyteller. From my experience in writing and creating I have found that the productive mind is like a radio, and sometimes you're just not receiving anything, my biggest concern is only remotely related to the matter: where does this transmission come from anyway. My mind is barren, thoughts are there but none of which are adjacent to one another and all are but proofs of a creative mind shattered. I ask myself now, are the drugs that brought me here a double edged sword. On one hand lies an elevated mind to some degree, in the realization of the linkage between everything in existence, on the other hand, the same mind acts like a broken transistor. Or maybe this mental evolution was inevitable and all I've done was shatter my hopes for a good existence.

I can sometimes read people, see the things untold but my mind has a mind of its own and its own agenda. "All diatribes are hollow" it says, expecting me to give in, get strong, shape up or go under. To sit in the writer's ivory throne and criticize it all gives me the satisfaction a quadruple amputee would get from a pair of bicycle. I want my words, my heart is shattered. And in this state of mind all words are written in vain.