Anneliese Schmidt

After forcing out a mediocre post, I found myself at Chokey as I usually do these days. He has become more brilliant and more profound, in classic contradiction to the Conrad theory.

He reminded me how much I need to work at this. "anybody can write about something else. writing about yourself without being boring repetitive or pompous is one of the most difficult tasks as a writer."

Some mornings I wake up to the surge of letters running through my veins. Occasionally, calculus and physics books lie gathering dust in the corner as the words in my head commandeer the very essence of my being.


I wonder if I would appreciate the state that an entranced writer falls into if I stayed constantly under it's spell.

The university will not help those surges. The traits which make me a hypocrite will never fade away unless I force myself out of my surroundings.

I don't want to do it. However, I cannot keep on living like this. The useless scraps of life which I constantly worry over will break me down eventually.

Those power surged moments have become sparser over time. My greatest fear is that they will disappear altogether.

I fought with the mad scientist last night in my dreams. I woke up in a furious state of mind. I don't remember ever being so angry at him. I need to keep the space that we have settled on.

The last post with the scholar seems silly to me now. Maybe I am just over thinking it. I don't remember laughing so much as I have recently, however.

My inner Bukowski pines for Saturday with Chokey. I need the echo of a common soul who has also used up countless veins letting the sentences flow outward.

The secret really did unsettle me this afternoon. He made me feel cheap. Sarcasm and I don't always mesh, I am too tuned into emotion to sort out the decoys. Yet again, however, something that I can't quite pinpoint unsettled me. I am not sure if it was how he spoke, or why he spoke.

I guess secrets have a right to live up to their namesakes.