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Well good… won’t be a lack of inspiration then.

You were fine before – which means, you’re fine now. Even if there’s this weird delay in sending simple keystroke data to microsoft word. What the fuck?

I think I may have set myself an impossible task. But we’ll see. Seems contrived. Of course it is. I used to care about such things. Maybe I’m too spontaneous right now. Feeling that way. Can’t be put to work on an old paradigm thing. Where is the poetry?

Weird freaky frigid wake and bake. Not something I really want to turn into an essay. Or poetry. Or anything really. It’s a lot of things. I can’t get a handle on it anymore. It slipped away. A hydraspectralchimera. Nohing seems right. Can’t get a handle. But everything is somewhat hallucinogenic. Thinking I need a drink. Need to stop caring so much. About what? I’m not sure. Heh. I guess it’s funny, but it feels too damned serious. Not a fun feeling.

Enthusiasm is hard to grip. You’re lucky I showed, buddy.

Feel distanced and scared of that identity I normally cling to, cultivate, make for myself. It’s oppressive, suppressive, and real. Feels. Sir Real.

I thought I was supposed to stop taking life seriously. It seems the opposite happened. To a ridiculous degree. I shouldn’t take THAT seriously, either.

Wondering if I lost it visually. Used to have ideas and inspiration, now tapped out? How seriously do I have to take it? This is silly and stupid. Hophead. I’m a hophead. I’m calming down, sort of, learning how to live aesthetically. Was just on an amazing creative flow. Still am. It seems to be grooving better. Falling into the pocket. But I’m still tweaked and freaked. But I can sort of roll with it. Wobble, not well, maybe, or maybe yes, maybe I should/could affirm.

Uncouth again.

It’s amazing how far along path of hedonism one drink can bring me. Or maybe it’s that one and a third that turns the corner. Subverts my sober decision maker.