No Es Bueno

Need murals. Will lust after flotation tanks and their glitzy egocide. Waiting for the audio alert that's never gonna come. Until the time I can't take advantage. Would initiate, but I think it's already dead. Probably was never alive, but I imagined it to be so. Was adorable, precious in a ridiculous getup, putting on airs. Could never believe in the delusion enough to make it real.

Well, the tension is gone, since the last blog post. Now there's just tiredness. I don't ache as much, because the idea of being with people makes me ill. Things are as they should be - lethargic and melancholic isolation. The universe is in equilibrium, I'm supposed to feel bad. And there's no point yearning for some utopia that's actually dystopia, like hell, where they haven't figured out how to feed each other at the feast with the long spoons. The ideal is a bastard, bound for solitary confinement, where they lock up the fuckups and perverts, the ones whose dreams bleed into life.

This has been a crap weekend. I got nothing done, except enduring the grand forks trip. It was interesting enough, and useful, in terms of taking in information, seeing and hearing the band I might be in... but for a high point, it's pretty pathetic. Harvester of headfucks. Pardon my academic sense of humour. I'm furious. Had to cancel afternoon school.

It's not gonna happen in Cleveland. And I don't believe your feel-good ratios. I'll call them "yours". Their existence has been proven, in theory. Alterants bring emptiness. So does the straight dope. So many attempts at sleep, so many attempts at wake, coffee and sleeping pills, I can't do the math anymore, can't figure out where I should be, cycle in shreds, body confused, mind even moreso. All projects pointless. Life pointless. Yes, I've arrived there again, the place where I feel so removed from the world, I can see it as objectively meaningless, so detached, so jaded. But do I have anything new to say about this place? No.

I thought I'd finish my script this weekend, but... it's not happening. My stomach feels weird. It doesn't feel right. It doesn't look right. Purity through starvation. There is no right. There just was, a feeling, once upon a time. When mazes were amazing.

Wheels are supposedly in motion - but what wheels? I don't think I have any use for the ones that are turning, anymore. The ones I thought would take me somewhere are stuck. I tried to make things happen for me, but my best efforts are inadequate. Plausible deniability at toxic levels. Hedging bets in the vagaries of metaphor. Universal you, except it gets more personal than you might think sometimes. It's an electrical outlet, don't finger fuck it, it'll fuck you up.

I would try to sleep, again, but I don't have the right equipment. Maybe I will anyway, a voyage to the bottom of the brain, an expedition to the top of the twit, a plug in to the public address and a six string sopo riff. Malfunctioning comp fan sounds like a cricket, but I have pink noise to play, an hours worth, which I loop. It's starting to sound like the rainforest intro to my dreaded wakeup music. It's all so fucked, and I can't say why.