Google is da debil

"Google is da debil!" - Mama Boucher.

What sucks to fuckin hell is that sometimes, well, a lot of times now, the words come out fine and they come out like how my brain synapses are firing them neutrinos want to come – in sync like how the void is in sync with the null – And then they stop.  And there's that drip drip drip of words, of not enough adjectives, too many adjectives, not enough showing – too much too much disgorging – and then the gears turn inside this lump of gray and self pity burst from, which hitherto, had been a place unknown (ignored)... but now critical analyses come along, comes a-running and then it's:

• the genre is not right
• adjectives as a crutch, maybe
• goddam, the order is goddam awful
• dialogue sucks
• tone, watch the tone
• what do you want to accomplish? do you even know? do you have a fucking clue as to what you want to say?
• you didn't prep enough. where's your material?
• you think you can just start writing? you think you can just push out words, like that? you don't respect the words enough, don't respect what each word fucking means – otherwise you'll know what to say.

Drip. drip. drip.

And then, like a crazed monkey bouncing against its cage, thoughts that have no place in the here (the now) / the eternity of the present, those superfluous thoughts turn into unessential details – an appendicitus of incoherence – they ram against the pages, bleeding the letters into nonsensical rubbish and what happens next? What can only happen when I hit the walls of resignation — I take the entire fucking thing, a beautiful piece of shit work like a retarded kid, I take it all, mash it up in my clenched fist, and call it a fucking finished piece of work.  Call it finished cause I don't know any other words to describe it.  Minutes cascading on hours crashing into days, spilled out from my guts and onto the piece of turd – I'd gone too far to dispose of it.  It was ugly, but it was my ugliness.

And then I googled a keyword -- ha ha ha, as if simple keywords can even begin to encapsulate what I wanted to say, what I had wished to be a piece of my skin & bones & realizations turned into a creation, a honest-to-god sincere creation through paper and ink --- and I found through the great googling machine a fucking article online that regurgitated what I had wanted to put down but I couldn't, in a way, a Method, a fucking school of thought (theorems and all), that was infinitely more luminous than I had dared to grasp. 

And like the Morning Star cast off into the depths, I shielded my eyes and muttered, "I could've done that. I could have!"