Thought.is

I am not a writer. Calling yourself a singer, or writer, or pianist, implies some level of above-average competence in communicating through those media.

Wilson started reading Arthur Koestler, and consumed a lot of drugs. I mean, a lot of drugs. He built a hotbox tent in his house. I bet the token (tokin’) stoner roommate’s never attempted that.

As I even further flatten my pancake ass against a desk chair, wallowing in slovenliness, I somehow develop an appetite.

My brain is either empty or constipated, and I can’t tell the difference.

No one sees Stringer Bell and says “THAT’s the guy I need to get my manuscript to!”

This is the second post in the recurring segment, “These Are Your Jams,” where I collect music submissions from Thought Catalog readers and publish the very best.

Picking up a guitar is the best thing I’ve ever done and my most difficult experience bore my commitment to it. Because of it I’ve forgotten how to be despondent. I’ve learned to value myself and understand that my appraisal is the only important one.

This is the first post in the recurring segment, “These Are Your Jams,” where I collect music submissions from Thought Catalog readers and publish the very best.

Lou Reed is a clearly identifiable example of someone who took pop music from something you listened to as pleasant recreation to a true art form. Art doesn’t have to be pleasant or comforting and his music certainly wasn’t either.