That feeling I had last night, that's the feeling I live for more than anything else. It's better than sex, better than drunk, better than elation, it is my one true love to the exclusion of any other taste, smell, sound, sight, or touch. What is it? It's... it's... aww, English is such a shitty fucking language, it's... it's fucking inspiration, man! It is the rare gift and curse of the true writer. It is that thing which drives us to poverty, drives us to hermitage, drives us to overindulgence of every excess imaginable, simply nurture that most terrible demon of our thoughts that somehow makes our lives worth living. Our pen and paper are possessions more precious than our families and friends, for it is imperitive that we give vent to our inspirations. Those inspirations are the axis on which the earth moves.
And ,of course, the one damn guy I need to talk to at that particular moment is the one damn guy I can't find and get ahold of. I flipped through every number on my phone and could not find one single other fucking person who was any good to me then. Because you are the only other person I know who knows exacly what I'm talking about. I don't know any other psych tech who's ever seen it or "writer" who's ever felt it.
The problem is that it's such a unique thing. This is the best and most important part of me. This is how and why I'll one day be able to stand with the likes of Hemingway. This is what drives me.
It's also what's completely intolerable about me. The people around me who've actually seen me when it hits, they feel... dwarfed. Because they realize that the attention that was focused on them has been suddenly stolen away by an entity they can't possibly compete with. And they're not getting it back until I'm damn good and ready.
This shit is why I live the way I live. The story demands it damnit! This is what I was battling the night Gordon first brought up joining the Army. This is the feeling I used to try to drink away. This is what has...

That feeling I had last night, that's the feeling I live for more than anything else. It's better than sex, better than drunk, better than elation, it is my one true love to the exclusion of any other taste, smell, sound, sight, or touch. What is it? It's... it's... aww, English is such a shitty fucking language, it's... it's fucking inspiration, man! It is the rare gift and curse of the true writer. It is that thing which drives us to poverty, drives us to hermitage, drives us to overindulgence of every excess imaginable, simply nurture that most terrible demon of our thoughts that somehow makes our lives worth living. Our pen and paper are possessions more precious than our families and friends, for it is imperitive that we give vent to our inspirations. Those inspirations are the axis on which the earth moves.
And ,of course, the one damn guy I need to talk to at that particular moment is the one damn guy I can't find and get ahold of. I flipped through every number on my phone and could not find one single other fucking person who was any good to me then. Because you are the only other person I know who knows exacly what I'm talking about. I don't know any other psych tech who's ever seen it or "writer" who's ever felt it.
The problem is that it's such a unique thing. This is the best and most important part of me. This is how and why I'll one day be able to stand with the likes of Hemingway. This is what drives me.
It's also what's completely intolerable about me. The people around me who've actually seen me when it hits, they feel... dwarfed. Because they realize that the attention that was focused on them has been suddenly stolen away by an entity they can't possibly compete with. And they're not getting it back until I'm damn good and ready.
This shit is why I live the way I live. The story demands it damnit! This is what I was battling the night Gordon first brought up joining the Army. This is the feeling I used to try to drink away. This is what has driven everything decent I've ever written.
It doesn't get any better either. With every year that passes, when inspiration hits, its fires burn all the more brightly. I can't excorcise this bitch and I don't want to.
There's something very similar in music. They first started talking about it back when the blues and jazz were still young. They called it soul. It was that spine-tingling feeling you got when the notes were right, and the music filled you up and just took you away.
And it kills. Soul kills. Inspiration kills. I don't have to send you a list of the casualties. You know the list by heart, as I do. All I gotta say is, pray for me, my friend. Because one day, it's gonna take me away, and I'll never come back.