soar eighty

I fidgeted at some point during my drive. Sunglasses before sunrise. I kept looking at my wristwatch, seeking reassurance. The weather fought with me for a second, or maybe I fought with it. I don't know. We kind of just tried to avoid each other, trying not to bump shoulders or look up from the tiles. I cranked the heat to abnormally loud, but rolled my windows down anyway. It had to be done. I had to be done. Anyway, I soared eighty on an empty road. Raced motorists who chose ten below me. I felt agile and competent, and I kept waiting for one really good moment. Like the last time I was conscious of it. There's this album I played. This album, most obviously myself. I'd never done it before because it frightened me. Weakened me. Then I realized after, that I'd just been absurd before. Immature about it. Like a stubborn child. It went on and I sat still, passed what I tend to believe is a natural trip. My voice wasn't hoarse, like I expect it to be. It was clear and strong, and I listened to it like the first moment of meeting myself. Like a very familiar voice of a stranger. I can't remember now much of what I had been thinking about. All I was certain of is my oddity of thoughts, for that particular morning. I do remember thinking about Ferlinghetti, and how perverse he must seem. How he wrote a novel that simply could might as well be a masturbatory story. "I was bearing a white phallus through the wood of the world, I was looking for a place to plunge it, a place to surrender it." That's the first stream of the book, and it has always stuck with me. I always like to note the difference between poets and novelists. Especially when poets write a novel, or vice versa.  This guy is obviously a poet. He lacks the certain conciseness of story-telling. Right now, I like it because his obsession (I expect), will guide me through his self-loathing and narcissism. How relevant for me. Apart from Ferlinghetti, my most distinct thought of the morning was to write it down. When you get off 24, write down what you can remember. Because you never write it down anymore. And you never make sense of things anymore. And you used to be secretive and selective of anyone else, but at least you wrote about things. I can't recognize anymore. So write it down. Before you forget. Before you arrest to caring again. Write it down.
Write it down.
Write, until it gets hards.