Thoughts, as they are, become too intense in solitude. This is the enemy of the self, writhing, screaming, curdling with fear...that which precedes and follows moments of inspiration, creativity, joy. But what is joy but that fleeting moment, which I struggle to retain, where everything is right...if only for an instance. And when these thoughts, reaching for joy, become too intense, then the intensity becomes too thoughtful and one is caught in a vacuous space, floating, aimlessly. Nihilistic. Like a sycophant, and you feel the demon tearing through. You cannot let him out. You cannot let him free!
In these moments, the demon must be distracted, so as to curtail his destruction. Distracted by fermented drinks and loud music, music reminding me of my youth, just four young men--punk rockers if I ever saw them--with nothing to lose and middle fingers and screams. At least somebody is still being obnoxious for the sake of it. Scream, brother, scream! Mosh and hit and let the violence escape, far, far, away (only for a night, Persephone, only for a night) and the demon is content with the loudness and the beer and the women that no longer plague my fantasies. Time to return home. Time to write.