I wrote a secret blog last summer, one that I told no one (or almost no one) about. It was my first foray into writing after nearly two years spent sulking over my lost screenwriting career.
The beauty of writing something anonymous - something no one but strangers will read - is that you can be brutally honest. You don't hold back. You don't worry about looking stupid, hurting someone's feelings, or being judged. You just say whatever the hell you want.
On June 23rd, I was feeling particularly lonely and hopeless (not to mention stoned) when I logged on to my secret blog and wrote what turned out to be a poem. Afterwards, I took the ugliest, tawdriest picture of my bong I could manage.
If I ever need to be reminded why this experiment is important, I don't need to look much further than "bingo."
bingo
the myth of transformation
is that it can happen without pain.
we wish
it were a journey of flight
but rather
it is one of submission.
I've known for so long
years upon years
but haven’t wanted to stop
I still don’t.
I love the ritual
the smell
the taste
the silence of the chatter
the gentle wash of calm
the series of little hits
sprinkled throughout the day.
but over time
I’m battered senseless
too washed out to write
too adrift to care
numb.
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