What is it that I try to create, to display, to be proud of, but cannot? Is it big, is it lavish? Should it have a ribbon? Why, there’s no need of these, what silly things. Why think words or draw pictures of what must be sung? Is it my voice, this thing I seek, this unspoken thing? Surely it must not be keep quiet, kept calm. But how to create such a thing, to expose my tenders to the stage, to become what was impossible? Why, hark, what is this? It cannot be, is that my own voice? Oh what a sound, a lovely noise. But could such a voice truly be my own? What is a voice, but a vice of thought? Needlessly squandered, a simple shame that shall be no more. But what is a voice, as unimportant as the space of time to which it belongs, a thing simply of recollection No, as a memoire, a voice will not do. A turn of phrase, caught in the archives of time, a thing not becoming of my own. But surely, if it is not a voice that I seek, what else must lie beyond my grasp? Is it another sense that I lack, could it be a desire for touch? Yes, it must be touch. Tangible. Memorable. Solid. But what must one do to achieve this elation? Is it truly a goal fitting of men, or merely a desire, a glimmering stone on the rocky shores? So, touch has turned itself against, an unappreciated foe. Do I desire sight, to see what does not belong? Or do I merely desire to not see at all? Yes, how could it be, these wretched thoughts are all of the visual mind. Is it a drug that I seek, a remedy for all my pains? Why, surely it is a drug that could fix my mind. Such was not so, merely a waking dream. A departure from sanity, if you will. Rather, an empty understanding. The answers for questions that cannot be asked, and the questions for which answers are beyond. Aha! It must be a god the mind craves. A spirit. A deity. A martyr of sorts? Surely this God will ask what could not, and emanate knowledge? Such a god would require devotion, spirit, a thing that I cannot provide. Is that it? Do my insides ache and turn for this? A mere question of spirit? Such a thing DOES exist, right here within me. All these questions, these fears, these inhibitions? Why, all gone, why not? Such foolish things shouldn’t, and will not blemish a spirit. The spirit is free, divine, and always correct. It is within this sense of being that all feelings are without meaning, a place of simplistic glory. Within my spirit, there is no voice, no touch, no sight, drugs, or God. Within my spirit, all is right.
whas written during a "brainstorming" period of a 2-hit lsd trip on saturday. between the above and the original, there are only about 5 grammatical alterations.
