Thursday, March 24, 2011

I have Writer's block

eddie zee

I have writers block. Consistent thoughts merged with ideas and formulas within inches of a solution. I have writers block. A cancer with no antidote, searching for false hope, but at least my breath is inhaling and exhaling. The ingredients to a well prepared dish without patient’s, leads to chaos. It all leads to jotting down useless sentences about corporate entities, basketball players, rappers, and this A.D.H.D. My thoughts are all over the universe at the moment. I have writers block. This is so fucking annoying. I can imagine if Leo Tolstoy entered his nine hundredth page in War and Peace and just froze. What a waste of time. This effort is minor to the detailed explanation of a topic I could have written about. But where is it? I have writers block and I have to let everyone know about it. This tedious mind of mine breaks and loosens up its blood flow just to encounter this worthless typing. I’m centimeters away from you, my topic, my discussion, my conclusion and thesis. No luck. No signs of recovering this time. These words seem to just slip away into unresponsive ears as the sun starts to burn. It’s quite late but dreaming is something of a treat right about now. And I will not allow my mind to feel its comfort until something spills out. Relaxing down stream into an ice cream filled pond with a spoon in my hand can only be a hallucination I’m having. So let me escape this dreadful thought and enter into a topic. Fuck! I have writers block. What am I talking about, ice cream filled ponds? I’m better, more constructive, and expensively intricate with syllables in intervals when I enter into an empty word document. Let alone the fact that I enjoy the satisfaction of my writing without regretting the tones in my voice. I’m entering into a writer’s mind, a labyrinth I cannot overcome, that I cannot fully fixate. With a little bit bold typing, spontaneous sentences, word play, verbs and adverbs, structure, grammar, and a mixture of scattered thoughts, I have to say this is quite interesting. However, isn’t that what writer’s do? We type away into novels and fiction, nonfiction and short stories, poems and biographies, to comics and law, and literature, into what makes sense to what doesn’t make sense. We enter into the minds of our readers to capture an emotion, a feeling, and some sort of a reaction. So to the readers, the critics, and myself, I suppose I have but one more tittle to add. “I have writers block”.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

The break up

Photobucket
A viva attitude towards a breakup always leads to endless encounters of provocation. There is always an enmity between the two break ups. The antagonizing truth is we have to move on not trifle about our feelings. To her idiotic slurs to her friends of why it didn’t work out to his enthusiastic denial that things still may work out. Scalding one another like a guarantor with false hope is not quite lucrative. Therefore, enamor your space and allow the other to breath. Then the heavenly aroma of freedom will waft into the air. Or you can quintessence back to the origin of when you first met, and neglect the possibility of sharing the first kiss. To perturb one another, would be to furiously engage in war and allow the amphora to fly across the room into the cracks of your sheet rock. Appalled by this decision can only enrage both characters. So light up a potpourri and talk it out, and forget the anarchist demon inside of you. Time heals all scars. Embezzle the communication you once shared without syndicalism, children! No one is to pontificate into a secrete society and dogmatically share one another’s secrets. Both parties will look cretinous. To escape mediocre embarrassment recalcitrant from friends that you encountered during your relationship. To forget your past is to forget who was in it. Also to equivocally answer questions about the relationship to acquaintances will place a picturesque image that may stain the other person. Keep quiet and hold your tongue from evil. The hubbub surrounding the borough you live in will be quite difficult to escape. Torpedo into a new lifestyle or face being a reclusive gaoler in your own environment. It’s obligatory to remove telephone numbers and any social networks still with an active account. You have to become eccentric rather then kind, this always allows for space and freedom. The melancholy feeling will eventually confide past a scoundrel mind state to being open to new challenges. Escape the ilk boring wailing because of a break up and break up like a prosector; well you know what I mean. Your reprisal falls on deaf ears and your furtive confidence is unheard when you don’t ostentatiously sublet yourself to someone new. The exhibit of your new character should be a hodgepodge of good behavior, confident behavior, and smart behavior or suffer the gallimaufry of the same shit, the old shit, and the worst shit. To sashay into a new relationship is to create a pseudonym smooth criminal and slowly moonwalk your way into new lust without facing a labyrinth situation. Call up some friends and have some fun, it’s a Wednesday.

Monday, March 21, 2011

In her own world

marilyn monroe sees eddie zee

In a world where the users that follow the lead introvert online dating and Wi-Fi, a woman becomes queen. The lipstick smudges across faint damped lips and blossoms as a kiss is blown. It’s easy for a woman in the 21st century amidst all the technology and knowledge to conquer. Women posses what men will never have without them, Pleasure! A combination of vibrant melodies intertwined with physicality. Neither money nor control can overcome the timeline of the sensations women clutch within their grasps. If man will ever rule the universe a hundred times over and become god without the presence of a woman, he will not feel complete gratification. I would trade in the creation of Microsoft and Google for a kiss from a woman’s lips if ever molecules became instinct. What slips from the history books and the bibles and the Quran’s is the power women unveil. The fear that one-day their presence will be felt is something men and generations after us will obscure. “I take it that you know why you are here,” the man mummers. And before a sound can come in the form of the woman’s exhaling breath, she smiles and whispers, “I’ve been here my whole life.” And thus the translation commences and women all over the world hear its call. Without you women, men do not exist.