selfish endeavors such as writing require no audience, although I assume one. a name, perhaps, does not matter so much as the person, but I am still hurt when Adam does not remember mine a year later. i find i am much too patient with others and not nearly enough so with myself. these are strict observations which would do better to be shown rather than told, but seeing as how i'm alone and no one is watching, i'd rather put it this way. it's cleansing to be able to say what you want to say and not worry about who's caring. i could be daring, and paint a mural on the side of Bank of America, something about damning corporations to hell, for after all, we have ruled that they are people. something about all this does not sit right with me--not just the corporations are people thing, but the words i'm building on the page feel dishonest, even though they represent quite literally what i am thinking at the present. i suppose it's because I know that anyone could be saying these words. that's kind of the point of poetry, sometimes, to say how no one else has; it's all been said already, we are now finding different ways to say it, without so many limitations and structure. although, if you talk to Adrian, a painter, he will argue that words are too constricting, that to channel the mind, one must drop all of the pretense; but my mind works in words, and in so many reasons as there are paper cups.
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