tanja

I am anchored to this world by the weight of objects I dont even want. My mind is the masthead on my own ugly ship, weather-troddled, barnacle ridden, slugging through storms only to be beaten.

I am tied to reality, waiting for imagination to cut me loose.

My feelings have been flattened and the crepe-like substance of my dreams break and blow away. While false gods continue to grow corpulent, the air dirties itself with disillusionment. Vanity eclipses beauty these days; we need to get our priorities straight.

Maybe the minds not such a terrible thing to waste.