(no subject)
Written and saved several days ago: I obviously can't drink and listen to music that you've given me, because I do nothing but ponder the unsolvable question of you+me for hours, to no avail, because there are no answers to questions that have never been asked.
In the days between when that as written and now, I have effectively marred a singular emotion. I have drunk myself under the table, into isolations, into silence. I have managed to keep my body out of the groping hands of people willing to sell their attentions. I have managed to keep my skin intact, sharp blades in the drawer. I never really said that I was doing well, just that I was keeping it together. There are levels of mediocrity that I am dabbling in; I'll settle for just about anything these days.
Listening to "Rid of Me" while driving the bike on ridiculously sunny days. Harvest moons have come and gone with no particularly pagan ritual to mark it's passing. We are officially headlong into fall and usually I am excited to embrace this change in seasons. However, this time, I can only guess that winter is going to cause me to shrivel. Bodies will going forward be clothed. Workloads will be doubled. We will talk less, dance less, hibernate more. I am feeling empty, as in waning. I am stockpiling the vertiginous throes of summer. I will unleash them this winter, amidst the dreary dirty gutters, amidst the lovers snuggling warm on couches. Because I cannot have a cold one, I cannot afford another six months to pass with nothing more to show than a slight sense of discontent. No, I'm savoring bad decisions, self destruction, complete narcissism, trashiness and subtle refuse. This will be the season that I exploded and was somehow all right.
Don't ask me why I feel the need to plumb the depths of this strain of depravity. I've just become too enamored of it now to turn away.
In the days between when that as written and now, I have effectively marred a singular emotion. I have drunk myself under the table, into isolations, into silence. I have managed to keep my body out of the groping hands of people willing to sell their attentions. I have managed to keep my skin intact, sharp blades in the drawer. I never really said that I was doing well, just that I was keeping it together. There are levels of mediocrity that I am dabbling in; I'll settle for just about anything these days.
Listening to "Rid of Me" while driving the bike on ridiculously sunny days. Harvest moons have come and gone with no particularly pagan ritual to mark it's passing. We are officially headlong into fall and usually I am excited to embrace this change in seasons. However, this time, I can only guess that winter is going to cause me to shrivel. Bodies will going forward be clothed. Workloads will be doubled. We will talk less, dance less, hibernate more. I am feeling empty, as in waning. I am stockpiling the vertiginous throes of summer. I will unleash them this winter, amidst the dreary dirty gutters, amidst the lovers snuggling warm on couches. Because I cannot have a cold one, I cannot afford another six months to pass with nothing more to show than a slight sense of discontent. No, I'm savoring bad decisions, self destruction, complete narcissism, trashiness and subtle refuse. This will be the season that I exploded and was somehow all right.
Don't ask me why I feel the need to plumb the depths of this strain of depravity. I've just become too enamored of it now to turn away.