speakeasy
Trying to picture it. Thinking in pictures, writing in pictures, dreaming in pictures, never stopping to think of words or thoughts or indescribable objects. just pour the constant stream of watery blended squelched up mess out of the infinitely replenishing jug.
Trying to find your own quiet voice supposedly speaking amongst the shouts of others. Don’t you worry. If you can hear yourself, you’re halfway there. You can’t hear yourself? You. You you you. You must. You can’t? Why ever not? Listen. Speak. Shout. Form stupidly short sentances from one word and one word only. The only word you can’t speak.
Artists, writers, actors, singers. They say it all. They have said it all before and will say it all again in the cycles of patterns of thoughts and impressions, speaking, shouting, singing, creating. Emptying their minds of any oceans of doubt held within that headspace, either as a mouthpiece for their own ocean or from the ocean of others. These thoughts are somehow of more worth, with more flair, and are debonair and careful placings instead of hot melted wax thrown on limp damp carpet; the stain you can’t remove.
A different jug drops one solitary drip onto a glass shelf. On contact, the drip explodes in a phantasm of colour, light and creation, shattering the glass shelf and all around into precipitation of icons; multicoloured plastic toys, pots of honey, furry stuffed animals, pink candy hearts…a celebration of variance, of gifts, of material physicality.
Bitter coffee, cutting sarcasm and wrathful writhing…
yes please.
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