Barren

It's an impossibility. It is the soap-covered granite cliff to climb, the bottomless cavern to cross. It is my barren mind. Like a napalm-covered garden of spring, I am home to a wasteland of forgotten thought. A cracked skull would reveal nothing but a numbing sludge. If there was ever a time when I was an oasis of originality and adroit observation, it can hardly be recalled. The only line of thought is my re-incarnation into the stone troll, monolith of retardation. Frustration is the name of the game. The more I struggle for even the low-hanging fruit of creation, the more I am powerfully chained into the quicksand that I live. Lifestyle, stagnant pool of paralyzing, inescapable consumerism that I back-stroke through? Feast on the fast- food, instantaneous pleasure to evade long-term pain? I'm neck-deep in the useless but quickly drying concrete of senseless sensory input. Rotting stench of countlessly recycled thoughts makes every day a vertigo-filled stumble through a field of razor wire. Give me a knife, I'll cut it out and grow a new one.

Frustrated,

Michael

would be nice...