Standing on the peak looking down at the fogged-over city. Headphones blasting. Patti Smith Pissing in the River. The holiest of the holy punk prayers. Feeling inadequate.
I see the beauty. Hear it. Know it, but have no passion for it. An emptiness of creativity. I’m not living up to my subversive potential. It says so in my permanent record. Formalism missing that final spark. A weeping frog. A misplaced pencil.
Only following, never leading. Always fear, never folly. Finding, at my best, only mediocre otherness. Hiding from horizons of triumph. Never daring. Rejecting, in my youth, rebellion’s bitter tit.