adrift

Feeling weird. Not knowing what to do. Improvising. Could it be that the world is ending? Or I'm interpreting on hyper drive? A drink would be nice right now. Or I could drive cabs for a living. Feel strange and alien and suburban and first world and hardcore. Interpreting blues fragments. Feel fragile and already starting to burn out. Maybe could veg out instead of burning out. Rejuvenate thru vegetation. I'm not in my right mind. Fragile typing fingers. And writing feels weird. And drinking feels weird. And not drinking feels weird. Could edit better in a solid state. And judge. And not feel overwhelmed by heavy machinery. A hard look into things and interpretations. Don't feel social. This is what I used to cure with booze. And especially other drugs, the ones that are chronically a part of dream wallpaper. Between sandworm negotiation dramas. Medicating medication and neuroses. And animal instincts misplaced. Need a virtual correspondence with an angel online. Would be perfect, magic cure-all... Self-regard. Recordings. That's what it's all for. Not glitchy-twitch euphoria. And when am I ever an artist anymore?

The essence is, I was feeling righteous anger, self-pity, and like a martyr. Now I'm questioning everything, feeling guilt and self consciousness and body consciousness. Won't bother singing the tenacious D song that Gus is playing. Well, you never know what's coming down the conveyor belt. I don't feel remotely capable of going into something and scoring a fulfilling career, but when I get more straight and solid and determined, and a little put-upon-feeling, I'll remember that I want to succeed out of spite, and anger is powerful, if also the dubious luxury of normal men.

Feels strange being here. Could laugh and speculate and anthropologize. And dream of sparkly diamonds crushed in hands, in past glories never re-creatable. Sibling banter. For my benefit. But it's nostalgic. But flash forward on the timeline. A drink would be nice. I remember I used to get hedonistic and tripped out, and transcribe this finch brood casually like this. Miss the freedom to drink. I used to do this, but with a notebook. In some weird ways, very little has changed.

Civilized, with benefits. Charming. And me, so paranoid and bitter, and dissatisfied with life but it could be worse. I'm so slick with devices and interfaces, aren't I? Can't I profit from that ? But I'm just a user. Wish I had the passion and ability for making, anything.

Yeah.

Feels weird, writing, like this. I wonder if I'll ever be a writer again. Or a reviewer or an analyst, columnist, journalist. Yeah, from this scratch, sounds fucking likely. One thing I seem to do well is swipe words that rarely get corrected. But these bids for empires of selves. They never seem to satisfy. So, jonesying for external validation.

And to-do itineraries seem important or at least worth bothering with when I'm solid. Or is this as solid as anything else? I should be rejoicing I got all this fuck off free time. But I don't know what to do with it. The second I'm left to my own devices, I realize they're glitched to all hell. My devices are broken. They need a driver. But I don't like it when others drive me.