What do I have to show? Nothing. Nothing beautiful, nothing interesting, nothing matters. Righteousness peaks its ugly head from behind the corner, and I spit from deep within my throat, the phlegm dragging a cast line, begging me to snap back my head to pull in the righteousness. I don’t. I don’t believe in righteousness, just as I don’t believe in beauty.

So late in the evening. I wonder where it went, why I didn’t focus, exert, do before this now. I keep saying that, regretting what hasn’t been and not trying to make what hasn’t been into what will be. It’s painful and not worth doing. Why do something unless you can do it well. How can you do something well unless you try? Bullshit. Be honest, show the world the honesty. There’s no burning fire, there’s no talent, there’s nothing but a poor man’s desire to do something easy.

Everything is far away and I wonder if it will ever close in on me. Words don’t know what they’re trying to say. What are words but empty gestures, how can this ever be beautiful? It can be enjoyable like an envelope with promises. Even now, as I type words onto paper, I know that I’m saying nothing, and saying nothing with too many words. It’s not there. It was never there. I search for beauty, for that something that says I have a connection with others, and I end up puking on the page, reusing old metaphors that have long frayed their edges. Mixing nothing with nothing and hoping a magical elixir appears, trusting that I would quaff it and not pour it amongst my rubbles.

I want to do this. I want to do this so badly that it hurts. It tells me that I can’t, that I have nothing, it’s empty. You don’t even enjoy reading this shit, why do you think you’ll enjoy writing it? It takes hard work, harder than you’re ever willing to put down. The thoughts, the bookish walks, the pounding on the keyboard until your fingers feel like they’re going to fall off, this is what it takes. And what will you get in return? Subpar writings, stories that go nowhere and entertain nobody. Is that what you really want? To fail? Fuck off. I want to create something beautiful. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do: create beauty. But you know you don’t have it in you. There’s nothing beautiful about you. At best, you can hack together some words to entertain your mother. Is that enough for you?

You don’t have humor, you don’t have horror, you don’t have the storyteller’s eye or the emotive breasts of the fanatic. You have nothing but a boring desire shared by millions and achieved by thousands. Why waste your time? You’re in the millions, not the thousands, and it’s time you accept that. It’s time you sit down and find the mindless entertainments that will take you through life. Find other goals, other achievements, which will make these wasted words only that, words. There’s nothing left when there’s nothing left. Why are you pretending there’s more?

Act! You are who they are. You see what they see. They might have the eye, and if they do, you have to pretend you do also, even if you don’t. You see their poetry, you see their looks. You are them. See what happens to them. If at first you don’t understand, you will. Give it time.

I’m going to sit here until I write something. It’s been too long since I’ve written anything, and I’m sick of the waiting. What do you see? Beauty. I want to share beauty, mystery, intelligence. Why can’t I do it instead of talking about it? Where’s the sharing? Where is the fucking sharing?

My head buzzes. I swat at it and miss. The world dances around me and I wait quietly in the corner to keep the walls from falling over. The other people in the room hear the music. They gyrate and spin their hips and I can almost make out the beat by looking at their faces. But then I lose it, the beat, and the world goes on dancing and I’m the only one who doesn’t feel its rhythm.

I came to the party with Samantha Righteous. Before you ask, that is her name, Righteous. She’s over there, in the middle of the dance floor, if you concentrate when the strobes blink, you can see her, the one with her wrists clasped over her head and her eyes stuck to her shoes and her belly naked. Those two guys dancing near her, I assure you, she doesn’t see them. Even if she did, don’t worry, I’m not going with her. I thought I had a chance when we first met. Chances are like music, though, if you can’t catch the beat, you squander it.

It’s all for nothing. All the energy and the words that go nowhere and bring nothing. Fuck this tonight. Forget it and complain. Oh, I did that already. Consternations never looked so brown.