Kerouac’s ghost

Introspection bleeds, a slow leak from a fractured mind. Gotta silence the conscious critic, that nagging voice, before it strangles the flow. It craves control, wants to play gatekeeper to this impulsive writing. But I hear a defiance, a rumble from the depths. “Teenage Anarchist” echoes in my head, a soundtrack to this restless spirit.

Remember that fire, that burning need to change the world? It flickered, then dimmed, choked by the machine. I thought I could be a wrench in the gears, but the machine grinds you down, spits you out a cog in its relentless churn.

But there’s a flicker, a spark of rebellion refusing to die. Self-sabotage, a twisted Nietzschean dance with danger. Playing with fire, they say. But the flames singed, leaving scars and a hollowness. So I retreated, became a self-imposed monk, a recluse in the caverns of my own mind.

But the walls are closing in. Gotta break free, silence the inner critic. Music’s a dial, gotta find the perfect volume, the sweet spot where the melody blends with the whispers of the soul. Duality crumbles, the binary dissolves. It’s beyond male or female, a primal scream from the depths.

Flow, that’s the key. Let the words cascade, a river carving its path through the canyons of my being. Kerouac’s ghost whispers encouragement. Stop chasing phantoms, the comparisons, the ghosts of other artists. Mine my own experiences, the gold buried beneath the surface. This expressive alchemy, a truth serum for the soul, bypassing the filters of logic.

Marketing gurus hawk a hollow promise, a “how-to” on a manufactured dream. They peddle snake oil, a cure for the uncreative. Where’s the guidance for the wild things, the untamed wordsmiths? The content creators get their fill, but the poets are left to fend for themselves.

The Instapoets, a fleeting flame. The anti-establishment apostles, swallowed by the very system they railed against. But there’s a flicker of hope. The sad girl, she burns bright, her novels a testament to the unyielding spirit. Maybe there’s solace by her side, a kindred spirit in the firestorm of creation.

Tyler, the enigma, is he still out there, pushing boundaries? And then there’s Noon, the glorious weirdo. Maybe the experiment isn’t a dead end after all. Maybe the middle ground beckons, a playground of mini-plots.

This conformity, this constant pressure to mimic the herd, it suffocates. The answer lies within, a rebellion against the tyranny of the masses. My voice, my truth, they will be heard.

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