Decay in 4K

 Broad Daylight

confresh

It's all too much for me sometimes. When my artistic work seems completely worthless, an unworkable solipsism. Don't know what mode to be in. Desperate grasping failure. This mode does not work. That other theoretical fantasy mode won't either. Will create disaster. Study of Skårderud's theory that man is born with an alcohol level 0.05% too low... ends here... due to immense negative social effects... and danger of... alcoholism. There's a simple solution to hedonic pursuits reaching dead ends, isn't there?

Could cut myself a bit more slack, it's not exactly easy getting off anti-depressants for that specific greater good. I'm doing a reasonably good job not indulging resentment, the resentment I know there's no grounds for, the dubious luxury of normal men.

If I can't just delete those toxic synthetic crutches, turn away from the empty fantasy and toward reality, then what the fuck kind of person am I? Stop celebrating my anti-social songs, wrapping my identity up in it, as if that's what I do, the only thing I'm good at.

Sure I can, can't I? Turn toward the healthy. Delete, purge every backup, commit to reality, a reality I could make work. But can I tell her about that? How could I, when it seems like sometimes it's just better not to go there, when it hurts her too much, can't keep doing this desperate damage control. Maybe that's where the outside help comes in, therapy, inkblot. But how weird is it gonna be, doing a remote session in a tiny shared apartment, paranoid, even with the promise of no eavesdropping? This is so funny, because there was never any promise or expectation of no eavesdropping on this blog, just a pattern of apathy I can predict, comfortably, mostly. In true Unpacked Wolf fashion, I'm gonna post anyway, because I'm not drunk or anything, so it's OK, it's all legit, anything I write here, right? I could be a Schrödinger's Asshole and say it's a joke, or it's the sincerest truth, depending on the reaction. Lean on limited hangout, like it's true that the stuff about alcoholism isn't based on me drinking or anything, that's just a metaphor for other things, a reference I wanted to make to a movie I saw recently called Druk.

So maybe it's time for a new direction in my therapy. Like getting some therapy. That would be a good start. And reconnecting with AA. So rusty in that recovery practice, I lack the willingness right now to get back to meetings. But maybe I have the will to become willing. Maybe I should do this, or that, with or without a wiffle ball bat, get something so trite as life coaching, seek the inside help of the recovery fellowship I've been shunning like the plague, since the plague... and the outside help of talk therapy, maybe cognitive behavioral, maybe eye movement desensitizing and reprocessing, maybe a justification for taking all of those five hits of acid I still have left, hard reset of the limbic system? Something funny's going on, when I'm voraciously reading articles about all these new pioneers in psychology finding uses for MDMA, mushrooms, KETAMINE, oh my god, there's a full circle I can get behind, let's take a second fucking look, yeah! So I'm entertaining thoughts like the reason "therapy" was always so shallow for me is it lacked any of those mind manifesting power tools, never allowed myself the lubrication to be able to talk about what I didn't want to. My repression is such that I don't even know about it, it's like trying to deduce the existence of an exoplanet from minute gravimetric fluctuations of its star light years distant, but I lack basic math, let alone an astrophysicist's toolkit.

I could discuss other addictions. Gray areas, so many gray areas. Like how I don't want to celebrate time, take those chips, those cakes, at the meetings. Time, "time", could I write a song about time? It's my time to be part of the pantheon, Pink Floyd, David Bowie, Tom Waits, my take on the time song. What place does my music have anymore, ever?

It's so worth it, the love of my life is at stake. The smallest backslide seems portentous, it's never been more crucial, I'm no longer an unmarried ne'er-do-well, I come with collateral damage, to waste my life would damage an intolerable portion of hers, it's too precious a thing, she's too valuable. Maybe some professional person who deals with fucked up idiots could help me craft my pre-anniversary game plan, refresh vows, and finally throw away for good the digital poison, the self-curated addictions, obsessively collected, loved, but not in any way comparable to her. Maybe something good came of a mind setback by hedonic backslides.... if, if, if I follow up on it, that's the big fucking if. Renewal of vows. Here's how. How I'm living it. To reference Druk again: I think Tommy is rooting for us.