***So I was thinking about writing something new, and probably politically oriented for my first non-introductory post…but then I didn’t. So yah. ***

If I had all the right words, I’d write them.
My broad bold pen strokes and the steady flow of ink to paper would explain away this sinking feeling with pithy prose and prolific poetry.
If I had all the right notes, I’d sing them. I would expunge this presiding sense of sadness with song and in lifting my voice my spirit would follow.
If I had all the right colours, I’d paint them.
The whirlwind sea of hue would stimulate the mind and elevate the soul, and I would find balance and understanding in the wet coloured paints’ overtaking of the dry white canvas, clarity in this perverse gentrification.
But I haven’t got all of those things.
I have words to write, but they flow far from freely and frankly fucking suck.
I have notes to sing but I could never get key signatures, the harmonies are all wrong and even I don’t want to hear me sing my own shit.
I have colours to paint but when I blend them I always seem to get bogged down in the shades of gray…
and what it all comes down to now is that I can’t shake this feeling that its all going to hell and I can’t do shit about it –
that no matter which lesser evil I pick I’m still going to become a 100% organic, subpar Jackson Pollock reproduction that somebody’s going to have to mop, scrape and sweep off the tarmac.