War and not so much peace

I like being self destructive. I think our bodies are temporal, and after them there is nothing, so why not have fun with what we’ve got. I drink too much, I smoke a little and consider smoking more. And on occasion I do drugs. Sure I’m not the worst case, but maybe I’m just a late bloomer. Sometimes I wonder if it feeds creativity, or maybe us “creative types” are just living too close to the edge of insanity. Hunter S Thompson and William S Burroughs were junkys, Bukowski was an alcoholic. I could list more, but I really don’t have the time or room, and maybe I don’t even give enough of a shit to continue. The point is, everyone who writes seems to have their own little personal demons, is writing how they are exorcised? Or is it just that their heroes were self destructive, and felt the need to imitate, perhaps to spurn on their own creativeness. I wonder about these habits often, those aforementioned authors careers thrived off of their habits, without them they’d have nothing to write about. Sometimes I compare my life to theirs and wonder how I ever have anything to write about, but then sometimes I realize there is something in my life. In the short space of two days I’ve been punched and seen my friend thrown into a mirror, I’ve burnt myself just for kicks, I’ve drunk more than I should, I’ve spent time re-evaluating my whole life, and I’ve felt those things I mentioned in the poem. Maybe I don’t need more self destructive habits, maybe I just need to actually pay attention to what’s happening around me, because it’s all happening at once. So many doors are opening, now I’ve just got to choose which ones to step through.

~ by Ace Sunshine on November 10, 2007.