Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
– Rage Against the Machine, Killing in the Name
__________
“I don’t have to vent my anger on them. Instead, I’m venting my anger on this page, which is the only course an angry writer should take.”
– Joseph Sutton, My Writing Year: Making Sense of Being a Writer
__________
Haven’t we all felt the emotions of a toddler, expressed with the vocabulary of a teenager, bursting forth from deep within with a desperate No!
I would love to not be so timid with my frustrations and irritations.
I can safely scream at the page.
Am I a coward for writing rather than speaking?
Or am I saving myself – preventing catastrophe?
I suppose art is a space for free expression that would snarl you in all sorts of repercussions if expressed in the workplace or the street.
I am not wholly civilised.
I am simply lucky to have learnt a simple system of filtration – my thoughts do not need always to be expressed by my mouth.
I can write them down instead. They lie in front of me in silence. A graveyard of frustrations.
I can resurrect them by sharing them in public to cause havoc or mischief.
Or, more likely, indifference. Because what is so wild about my thoughts? And why would anyone bother to read them let alone be bothered by reading them?
This is all for me.
A repository of the good, the bad and the ugly.
Conversations With Quotations 