Yes, I know that last entry is an extravagant indulgence in childish pasttimes. I wrote SOMEthing didn't I?

Mercury-skinned demi-god riding the waves of the star-filled void
Pursuent of your forsaken alienity
Molded in the image of the god of consumption
Rebellious of your deity
Loaded down with wanderlust, you seek the untrodden lanes of the aether

What is this worthless life-den of a rock?
What wondrous beings inhabit here?
Do I have the right?
To choose between occupation and conscience?
Consequences are the weight of it

My morality denies me all hope of return to love
Return to Shalla-Bal
Let the guitar-riffs sing
Collect the gauntlet ring
He who woos death is no nobler a thing

What a lonely thing to be the former herald

Ode to the Silver Surfer
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Given the assignment of writing something still gives a sense of dread, like I'm about to perform. I can get on a stage faster than I can unleash the full expression of my thoughts. What mad inhibitions have forced me into this... complex? Irony? Juxtaposition? Contrast? Okay, I'm at loss for the word I know is in there somewhere. I think I know what my problem is: I sit here watching the dumbe-down motion pictures that pass themselves off as teen angst. This movie whose name I have yet to learn can't even pass for an intelligent romantic comedy. Matthew Lillard and Freddy Prinze, Jr. I can understand, but has Anne Paquin truly sunk so low? Her career began with The Piano! I felt so much more intelligent watching that. Heck! X-Men was more intelligent than this riff-raff. I've been getting lost in doing research for writing a role-playing game, but how much have I really written? Very little. Pencil needs to connect with paper and needs to KEEP connecting with it. Oh dear. Here we go again....
So why am I only writing during the commercials? They've gotten me haven't they? Okay, now I know I'm a bit of a conspiracy theorist, but have I truly lost it if I think "they" are out to dumb the masses down. Not just me. Everybody. Noone's going to revolt to the "New World Order" if they're too stupid to know that they're oppressed, right? Or am I just "suffering for my art"? What art? I haven't produced anything one could quantify as art in any shape or capacity since...Maine. Why Maine? What was it about Maine that unleashed me? Alowed me to cut loose? Is it blind admiration for my aunt and uncle?I keep asking questions, but I'm not giving myself any answers.