fame

fame is a flame that never fueled my heart.
i find it so hard to penetrate those blinds. i hear the helicopters outside, alright.
i know the crackheads still hide outside, the homeless guy has built a little fort into those abandoned tables behind the greyhound station. my roommates wander their wondrous ways and I don't necessarily make sense of it all at all.
it is a returning question mark, a burning emptiness inside, makes all sounds just echo.
i fucking can't hear anything over the crackeling sounds of this burn. this destruction. the echos aren't sounds really. they are like paintball bullets cracking my walls.
fame is a flame that never fueled my heart.
i don't know about this one. maybe i am just a giant pussy. that needs to get laid. i don't even feel anything.
of course, there are flashbacks to 1997 and how I danced in the kitchen for hours. suddenly, a vision, like a lightning that burns a certain picture into your head: me in Africa on a stage, performing, sweating, breathing. alive.
that was then. of course there was an audience involved. fame. not the same.
recognition sure tastes good. you put the tip of your tongue into it and it rips you open. it makes you want to have more. already as a child i cried and covered all my paintings up or tore them apart.
it just won't damn fit.

i gave painting up for a while. it didn't make sense to me to paint for the heck of it. the meditational aspect, yeah. but to paint for an exhibition? to write for a fucking audience? for you? for who? for me, reflected in your comments, pouring down like honey? once in a lifetime? monsoon?
I can't see it no more. it got so worse that the immediate idea of an audience shrunk even to the idea of another in the room. the very concept of being seen collapsed in a surge of fear of expression and painful blush, covered up by pale stale flour like podwer saying 'i never sought to impress'.
the fucking gist convulsed and all that is left now is a point, pointing into nowhere, where eternity sleeps like a giant being - monstrous and desastrous and sweet and beckoning like babajaga in the house on the three chicken feet.
the disgust to create so another can admire eats on me like worms a rotten corps.
it's as if I aimed to shoot and shot myself in the heart instead of in the black.
it's not about admiration, silly, I say, but it's too late. it's out. words, flying like bats, bad bats that can't hear properly. bumping into walls and trees and ears and eyes and hands.
it's about the touch.
but i have no hands to touch no more.
and i have no courage to raise my voice nor my pencil nor my paintbrush.
i have no courage to preach no more
i have no courage to touch no more
i have no courage no more

the only ray of light is the sun in the morning in the smile of a child.
or so it seems.
the blanching hero taking a shortcut.