the author ache

i am compelled to believe in a god and i thank him

my life is a real baroque maze

it is a bizarre riddle

still i have had my health and i have eked out a living

playing not working

all extremes combined into one i have stumbled through life

certain wearinesses appear reminding me of my approaching winter

and my long rest

too hard to be soft

too soft to be hard

music words art have become easy for me

but life is getting harder

i tell you again

with all my words yet i cannot seem to reason with many

my anger and self-doubt trip me up

my pre-occupation with art consumes me

i work on things in my head

i can’t keep track of all this on the outside

i have my own taboos and formulae and rituals

given isolation in a music studio and an art enclave

oh i would certainly produce something very good

the outside world intrudes of course

i don’t get enough done

i need to create

I’ve gotta get cracking

every day or 2 a new thing crops up

good things bad things neutral things

eats up yer time and inclination to do something

my world drives me mad

it is one conundrum on top of one more conundrum

writing a song?

no worries

sorting all the rest out?

weariness descends

i am at the centre yet have frittered away authority

old myths linger

the new me is perceived only dimly

as i get freer i get more entangled

then suddenly even tomorrow

it may all suddenly stop

and all the manoeuvring will be as nothing

just more bullshit contributing to ones demise