Honestly? How many times can I feel the end of the world? And not even feel unbearable lightness of cyclic nature? Dreams will save me in the cycle, every once in a while, like the bankrupt wedge on the wheel of fortune, something more healing than anything inside the head, a reset of self awareness and identity.
There won't be any smile for many days, except a fake one, cause in times of real self-inflicted darkness, it gets to where pretending things are better is better than feeling the pain of feeling the pain, on that extra meta-feeling level. I got locked up, unable to express anything relevant, even through a debauch of words. Cause of what I did, again, how it makes everything pointless.
It's sick, really sick, especially how I say this, the will to change everything, but the sick mind applying the implements, ineffectively. Really, it's never been more pointless to say the things, of health and philosophy and artistry and disease telemetry.
I think I sicked myself out. I'd like to hang out in the hollow wallow until ruined city reverb sounds pleasantly familiar, familiarize until comfortable, the hard dynamics of familiarization, re-familiarize, grind on the stuck gear of frozen malfunction.
I'm straining, cause nothing goes, it's a no-go, non-starter. The opposite of freedom is what I need, possibility grants me malign tumours, makes waves of arbitrary frequency, like an Aphex Twin track where he used a spectrograph morpher to sculpt his decal visually in linear pitch vectors but you're trying to hear a melody.
I can't make anything good out of this, it takes a little more out of me each time, each time I fuck up. If there's a trajectory, I can't see it, or believe in except as a proof of the Riemann Hypothesis. I've squandered enough second chances, there's so much wasted grace there's no seeing over the detritus. Yes, I'll slog through, try and come out of it. I just can't see what I could do with this utterly disgraced person at this point, it's played out.
I know how I sound, I dunno, maybe I need to let even more, let things disintegrate even further, I mean, in the case of straining to tap out some consecutive words, as if that's something to move through and not the extended wing downward into darkness. Extant.
I guess the point would be to become a monk, and do something useful like copy books in longhand. Well, what's the modern equivalent, that's actually useful? Rip television series' from Netflix and upload them to torrent sites? Even then, I'd be redundant, there'd be crisper rips quicker than I could output.
I richly deserve what bloodless depression I feel now, but it doesn't do anyone any good to bounce around in that bubble. Maybe it does me some good to reflect in words, since it's the barest feeling of having a facility, though the mirror is filmy from bodily fluid misfires. But there's been no attempt, just a long-standing lament at lack of craft. Meanwhile, consuming terabytes of podcasts streams and series, feeling like I can riff on the brilliant comedy because I can predict what they're going to say 5% of the time, like I'm a peer, appreciating the craft like a practitioner.
Can kind of see it in my head, like I see anything in the mind's eye, which is so vague it's tragic, but a kind of tragic my crying muscle never finds purchase on, more of a dream tragic that can't be wept about, it's smothered by superterranean substance, and I would gladly take that, for eternity, instead of the void I'm still afraid of. But getting to a point, perhaps, where I'm sick of thinking about how do I face it, or what does it mean, and would rather just fucking NOT think about it, nevermind about the truth or whatever, fuck.