Friday, April 12, 2013

Nothing better to do

I have nothing better to do than to sit here and idly allow my thoughts to flow.  Selfish.  Perhaps.  We all have to be a little selfish sometimes.  I have nothing better to do, because nothing could possibly be better than finding myself beneath all this made up make up fairy tale wanna be hopeful bullshit that I keep telling myself the things I need to tell myself to make myself continue. 

Not that I struggle to know who I am, or who I want to be, or anything that might reside somewhere in the midst of all that.  I remember who I used to be.  I don't ever want to be that again.  I remember who I was shortly after that, too.  I miss her sometimes.  She was adventurous.  She was lively.  She was fun.  When she wasn't suicidal anyway.

She unapologetically wrote terrible poetry, and she lived her life to the fullest.  When she wasn't suicidal that is.

Okay, she had her serious downs.  But her ups were incredible.  Much like that Rilo song, though, it does seem fucking cheap now.

Am.

Not that becoming a world class whore would change any of it.  My payment was always regret, and never monetary.  I guess that's the point of the thing.  Tear 'em down to build 'em up.  Not necessary in the slightest.  Just like it wasn't necessary to build me up to tear me down, but it made the fall that much more exhilarating.  And memorable.

I think I fear the depths now, mostly because to tread that blackened water means to face the rocky surfaces where I've built my new home.  Face it, rock foundations crumble just as easily as the sandy ones wash away.  I've seen enough destruction.  I dare not watch the news.  I can't even handle the weather report.

The weather report.  Ha! I prefer to be surprised. 

That's unchanged.  Unchanged, now there's a concept.  Not much doesn't remain.  Fear is the new adventure.  I don't drive much anymore.  I used to road trip all the time.  Every chance I got.

She was fun.  Not that staying home to dehydrate tomatoes isn't fun.  It isn't.

When the fuck did I get so old?  So mundane?  So normal?

I watch tv.  I didn't used to.  There's value there if you look hard enough.  But I stopped looking.  Isn't it enough that I'm still breathing?  That's the premise of my current argument for living. The conclusion is the same, for all of us, without regard to philosophy or belief.  Life's too short to even care at all. WoahoooOoooOooOoOoOoo. 

Change.  Change needs to happen.  Only I can make it happen.  I can't just keep sitting around waiting for it to find me.  It was supposed to happen today, only it didn't, because staying the same was too inviting.  They should invent a coinstar for this sort of thing.

Who knew? No one ever said it was easy.  No one ever said it would be so hard.

How many song lyrics enter my thought process on a given day, I wonder?  Probably hundreds.  It's probably not a problem, except I should probably write my own.

That's where it is, you know.  In the writing of my own damn lyrics, when you say that the lyrics are life and the writing is the ability to make decisions.

I admire the dominatrix.

I'm ready to get off the bottom.

And out from under all this made up make up fairy tale wanna be hopeful bullshit. And perhaps the terrible sex analogies.

I blame the new diet.  Seriously.  It's impossible to eat this way and not face life at it's very core straight on.  It is.  They warned me.  I didn't heed.  Now I'm pushing bat shit crazy AND starving, because fuck salad.

That's right.  I said it.  Fuck. Salad.

Unemployed.  In Ohio.  Not the best situation, not the worst either.

It never ceases to amaze me how tied our identities are with what we do for a living.  Most folks die after they retire because they lose that sense of identity, sense of purpose, their very drive.  How ridiculous?  You must be a slave to something, whether it's work or passion, to live?  I don't know.  Seems reasonable enough in terms of human understanding but completely unreasonable that we don't know how to just be.

Not as if I'm some shining example of knowing how to just be.  I'm clearly not.

I've got to start reading more.  My ability to floralize language is as dead as my desire to seek adventure.  That's to say that it ever lived in the first place. Yup. Lol.

I suppose the root of this heartache comes with the territory of almost having been the cause of someone's death.  That's new.  That's definitely new.  And the weight of it is incredible. 

Circles.  I'm starting to hate them.

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