For days the odd feeling of a defunct mind is acute. All the fuelling motivation of undertaking some constructive task is nipped in the bud when all the words and ideas are suspended in a hackneyed chaos. Therefore I've sit and waited for the moment, the moment which some will divine as a slip of a thought across the mind, to come.
I made it a goal of writing some proper songs this holiday but have yet to land in any presentable works. There are only snippets of songs which sound no smarter than nursery-rhymes, crop up uneventfully with distorted notes. Listening to those dreadful demos disgorged everything from my head into a notorious hole. A hodgepodge of anger and befuddlement tumbled in my stomach.
I dislike the self-glorification of writing kooky songs only due to one's futility of producing beautiful if not coherent notes. It's the sublime excuse for those dogs in the manger. My stupidity of following the masters of Syd Barrett, Donovan, Marc Bolan and Jim Morrison only make them more far-fetched and cultish.
Every time I am eager of doing something, I blame my belated decision of doing it, and subsequently forms a vicious circle of constant complaints and stagnancy. It is the exact bafflement of standing in a kitchen while neither the food nor the equipment is ample.
I therefore fancy a world without order or the time grinds to a halt every time I will it. I fancy an unchartered territory.