I have the same problem writing as I do with women
My problem is this, the two exist on a different wavelength. I mean, my passion and my intellect simply do not belong in the same sentence.
While my intellect loves rhymes and ironic designs meant to delight the senses without a hint of rough edges...
My passion is a boulder rolling down a mountain, unfit for any tact or caution
It's a seeping, bleeding of mess of raw emotion
A colossal, syrupy dissertation from a dictionary six hundred volumes longer than my stark vocabulary
Let me put it another way. A friend of mine once explained to me that when studying attraction on subjects undergoing catscans, three different centers of the brain light up depending on the nature of the relations. To paraphrase them, I'll say they're called lust, love and trust. We all want all three of these to light up at the same time but for me, they never do, they're always out of sync.
This feels especially true when mulling over my celebrity obsessions, for while I always, always masturbate to Natalie Portman I swear I feel real, romantic love for Emma Watson whose pedestal I dare not desecrate with desires either honest or carnal. And I'm pretty sure I don't trust anyone.
My emotions are a rocksong played by narcissists all dreaming of their careers as solo artists. My lust being an edgy, murderous bassist, my love a hardcore, ambitious guitarist and my trust a soft spoken, wide-ranged vocalist.
We usually open with our bassist who thrashes and writhes about on the ground in convulsions like a fish choking on oxygen, and the band plays it cool like the whole seizure is all an act performed at his leisure.
But if they can mellow him out for just long enough to get passed the introduction the real terrorist opens and strums his strings at max volume, assuming each note belongs in the heavy-weight songs so magical you don't know if you're listening to the satanic gospel or the love child of punk rock and classical
So if the singer can even get a word in edge wise, his throat cracks, his voice trembles and his body arrests in anxiety attacks. And he wishes so deeply his bandmates would just mellow out long enough he can catch some hint of a beat and let free to unwrap and consecrate a vast, breathing mirage. Instead all he does is hum along.
And yet still they wonder why it is they never leave the garage.
But where on earth exists an audience for such self-absorbed and fragmented dissonance? Even if they dig a particular instrument they're bound to lose interest when they realize they have to take every piece of this. Nothing in me feels willing to compromise an attribute and I'm stuck wondering how I'll be ingested. Will I be applauded in glory uncontested and triumph unbreakable or dismissed as if I'm purely disposable? Will I be swallowed up into darkness without notice or feeling or will I cause internal bleeding?
In the end it doesn't really matter because the real me won't stop whether or not contemporary audiences are caught and one day everybody will be listening to the love child of classical and punk-rock.
