One time I got too high and thought I was breathing octopuses. Their tentacles were blowing out of my mouth and touching everyone in the room. Then they’d shrink back and hide in my stomach. No one else could see them. They were my secret octopuses.
When was the last time I felt inspired by anything? Honestly, it’s been a long time. Lately everything I write just seems to get me down. I have a pile of stories sitting open, waiting for the endless amount of utterly menial or altogether idiotic edits I keep inventing. Nothing I write gives me the sensation I’m looking for. Like soft, quiet breathing, alone in that chilly moment before dawn. Like all the pleasure and satisfaction of being in control of another person’s orgasm. The smiled shared between you and a child, casually staring without remorse. I want my words to give me these feelings.
The other day something changed. Only for a second. I don’t really know why but suddenly it felt like this enormous weight was lifted. The night was turning to day, the sky melted quietly from black to gold. There was a sigh of silence and I was uncontrollably swept up in it. I owned the world. For the first time in a long time I was happy. A gasp, a shudder, and I was back to this state of fucking lethargy. Desperately wanting to write but unable to do so.