Over the past few years, i have been deteriorating. Like, falling apart. I used to have a reference of time, i do not any more. I used to write with passion and now.....I'm happy to write anything at all. I used to carefully strategize my words and actions in life, how they effect others and myself, emotional contagion, the whole deal.And now i am at a new place and honestly can't be more thrilled.I am dying. Everything that supported me as an identity has lost value in my sight. Being stripped, peeled away until we reach the core. What do we find?NOTHING. A big vast empty plot of nothing. I am in love with this giant warehouse of a heart i have, a storage unit. I will dance in it because i can, and scream because i echo, and then i will fill this sucka with every piece of life and beauty i can find. Like tagging worthless magazine clippings on the wall just to rape them of their white, so i will cram every piece resembling the least bit of hope and color. Then i will really scream. And turn on a song and dance so hard i break all the pretty junk i just shoved into myself and i will have you over for tea and you will be amazed how much fun we can have dancing and shreaking like little girls.
Tea Houses. When coffee shops die and become too cliche for artists to hang around and too predictable for college students to study at, overall just too mainstream to feed anyone aside from office professionals on their way to corporate, I predict the rise of the tea house. Surprisingly enough, it will serve teas instead of that black bitter gasoline they frost with cream and splenda, and it will be brilliant. It will be a celebration of minimalism and art. So skinny hippy artists will eat it up.
I need to find a house. Just a dump on the corner of Main & Wood will do nice. I would love to live with my guitarist but it is taboo and i would be disowned by Mr and Mrs. Unless they didnt know. What a stupid thing to do, living my life creeping around in fear that my older influences will disapprove.