Nothing to write
Only to wrong

Dear Sir George Henry Martin

Now somewhere in the sleepless city of LA
There lived a young girl named Tactful TJ
One day her curiosity ran off with speedy Adidas
Left her in the dirt, she didn't like that
She said one day I'm gonna find my curiosity
So she drove away into the night
Her only passenger the Nowhere Man from Nowhere Land

To talk of many things

A giant cockroach frantically scurries across the room, struggling to dodge a storm of cascading red apples. An Algerian man accountable for the death of an Arab stands indifferently over his carcass, shot multiple times for no plausible reason. A timid captain meets his doppelganger face-to-face in a dark L-shaped room, located on a lonely ship in the middle of the ocean.

Kudos to you if you can pinpoint the literary pieces that contain these mindwrecking scenes. They happen to be part of some of the greatest literary works I've come across, all portraying a human enigma I've never been able to fully wrap my head around - the id as a societal foreigner. The id by definition is inherently human, it defines our most basic impulses and wants - survival and sexual satisfaction - and constitutes the amoral, instinctual side of our personalities. As opposed to the societally influenced conscious us, the id is us at our most basic level. And despite this, we try to hide it away into the deepest corners of our souls, ashamed and embarrassed of the raw, infantile thoughts of our minds. We have this inborn urge to constantly suppress our "dark side" and mask them with superficial images of good and righteousness. We deny our primal desires when we know they are universally human and natural. We follow a path of artifical, self-created morality, but under what authority? We are unreliable narrators of our own lives. Repression of the unconscious mind can only lead to self-consumption; acceptance, on the other hand, fosters independence and self-discovery. Power to Hobbes, but I'm not saying we're inherently evil people. I'm saying we shouldn't have to feel like we have to mold ourselves to what modern ideology brands as bad or good. But I have to admit my criticism of this human hypocrisy is hypocritical in and of itself. I, without a doubt, fall victim to mankind's fixation with constructing a facade of virtue. There are a lot of things you don't know about me and well, I'm sure there are a lot of things I don't know about you. If I reveal them to you now, I'm still the same person, the same friend, the same daughter you've always known, but regardless, you will judge me. Perhaps that's the reason. We hide ourselves because we are afraid of being judged. Maybe I should return to God. That way, if I do something "bad", all I need to do is confess to be redeemed.

Hah. Fuck that. Writing is salvation enough.

Tactfully,
T.J.

My Two-Buck Chucks

Under the blinking stars
that strangle our windowsill,
we lie supine on the bed
in the dim yellow light

we look up youtube videos --
of laughing babies,
and cats playing piano.

we listen to music --
Damien Rice, The Smiths,
and Cat Power.

we talk of interpretation --
musing over words
we don't understand.

supine on the bed
in the dim yellow light,
we question the meaning
of my two-buck chucks.

i have a strange inclination
that this could be
the very utopia
of Mr. Aldous Hux.