Today a book was brought to my desk. Upon opening it, I learned that it was a gypsy book. A book passed along with the intent to publish. Each person who recieves it enters as much or as little as they'd like into the book, pictures, poems, prose, song lyrics, anything they feel inspired by. Here is my entry:
"Entry # 4
I am not many things. Most certainly nothing spectacular. I am an escapist. I drink, smoke, fuck, cry, laugh, and meditate to escape the feeling of existence, mortality. I am completely insane. And not in a playful way. I've seen faces melt, wings sprout, empires burn. I've seen myself drown, I've seen my best friend and lover get shot, and I've seen cocaine flow through the veins of those only a decade and a half old. I've tried to write poems, prose, I've tried to sing, dance, draw, paint, travel, learn russian, german, french, spanish, and sign language. I've smoked Parliments, Camels, Marlboros, Dreams, Newports, American Spirits, and pot and cigars alike. I've been in Little Shop of Horros, Phantom of the Opera, Blithe Spirit, The Scarlet Pimpernel, Beauty Lou and the Country Beast, Rumplestiltskin, Of Mice and Men, and Rend (among many others....)
This seems like a list of accomplishments, It is not. It is a list of attempts. My list of failures. And that has only scratched the surface. It wasn't until I saw him glow, and his wings spread, with fireflies filling the smoky sky by the millions, that I realized. I no longer have to try. Finally, I actually can. I can achieve something. And now that my electric wings have finally burst from my back, I can search for her on the dance floor.
And the voices with stop.
And we will ALL be safe. "
Now to find a picture.
