lungless

once upon a time

i was a writer. i wrote what i felt, thought, and saw. past, present, future, good, bad, dark, bright, right, wrong or in between, it didn’t matter. 

then people started reading my reading. people sagged in the dark. people rose up in the dark. they had feelings. they wrote me.

they wanted me to write about them. or to stop writing about them. they asked that i choose particular endings or beginnings. 

now

my writing is immediately scanned for proper allegiance, reverence, homage, feeling, orientation, and secret plans.

this ability of mine is not constructed of steel. it wears the skin of roses, breathes the air of undiscovered planets. 

it is dying under scrutiny and demand.

About this entry

You’re currently reading “lungless,” an entry on house of nezua

Published:
09.10.08 / 6pm
Category:
arte, the human condition(ing)
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