To write without the assistance of Opium is to perform surgery without formal medical training. Sure,you could hobble your way through it,and your patient may come out on the other side no worse for wear,but your performance was simply rudimentary. I could learn to let creative thoughts spring forth without the assistance of my botanical ally,but,would the thoughts even be worth writing? Would they even come?And if they came would they be worth reading? The influence of influence,seems so invaluable to my creativity its like there never was any creativity at all without it. But surely,there are plenty of writers out there who lack the influence of influence,and people enjoy reading their writing,no? But I do not,so why would I ever want to be a writer like them? Droning on and on,without that flavor of influence,the pain, the worldliness,the suffering,highs and lows that seem to flow from my good friend,that "Monkey on my back" as it were. Over the years me and my monkey have became quite good friends,I feed him,he whispers ideas in my ear. I've thought,perhaps they call it a "Monkey" because it represents the primitive part of our brain,the part of our brain that just sees that what we are killing ourselves with feels good,and nothing else. Well,if its the primitive part of my brain,I dont want to not indulge it,isnt that the part of my brain that got me to this point? Insured my survival while hunting,while running from beasts greater then me,while reproducing,while making sure to eat,fuck,and reproduce to guarantee my lineage leads on? Isnt that the only reason i'm here in the first place? Well, at least my monkeys my friend..
dailybridgerton
vaporwave
andulkaphoto
pixelskylines
baratheonpilled
dededos
2087