i want to write



‘Number 8’, Jackson Pollock


I want to write,

but my brain will not focus tonight;

it is swimming merrily in the potent rum-and-Coke i drank at dinner.

I want to write,

but instead i think of deadlines

and calendars and unread emails and to-do lists.

I want to write,

but the words are shifting shapes;

like the rising heat, they seem to wave and dance.

I want to write,

but i live in a cursed age; too much information and

not enough time to form an informed opinion.

I want to write,

but my thoughts are blurred;

it’s like trying to see through rain-specked lenses.

I want to write,

but it is not that easy anymore

to summon my artless ideas

and mould them with pretty words into deep epiphanies.

I want to write;

but i am not even sure if there is something ahead,

like vague outlines in the swirling fog of dawn in winter.

I want to write,

to relate something that both of us thought of, but couldn’t find the right words for.

I am doomed

to be verbose without being meaningful.


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