this is the night...

...this is what it does to you. i had nothing to offer anybody except for my own confusion. (j.kerouac) mine is not an easy story to tell, especially since now- in the silence, deafening silence, i have nothing but time and potential energy to convert kinetic towards (what would undoubtedly be) a monumental effort to write.it.down... but yet, i can't do it. i wonder if the reality of the thing is what stops me, and what leaves me paralyzed and hunched, all sad-like and pitiful over my gross snotty keyboard. maybe... but probably more likely is the fact that writing it down ensures accountability. as in, someone, somewhere... (even if it's just me, future tense) will be able to hold me accountable on some level for the shit that i have written, for the nonsense i have recounted. because so long as it's scattered and random and happenstance and only exists in my mind and from here in this desert of sorts all the way hell-ward to the city of new york in all its mad glory... well then denial is not only possible, it's how i get by. sort of.