So, I seem to have a journal...
In which I have not written anything significant for, well, a damn long time.
Even the insignificant things I've forced myself to scrawl incoherently in these pages are more insignificant than I might usually bother to waste the time of any remaining reader, and indeed my own time cronicling.
I'd love to say "oh but there's been a good reason".
But it would be a lie, and a transparent one at that.
There have been some bad reasons, a whole slew of petty irritations ranging from my oft precarious state of health through my increasingly precarious mental state to the ever fragile state of the united states, surrounding territories and hangers on. Including this sceptered isle, now a wretched hive of scum and villany.
But reading back through the pages of this journal with their multifarious blood, sweat, and tear stains, grubby thumb prints and occasional suspicious sticky patches I have learned one thing.
Sometimes I need to write shit down to get it out of my head.
A mental house cleaning, a psychological sweep away of the dust and debris caused by simply living in the same psyche for extended periods of time.
Ladies, Gentlemen, boys, girls, sluts, letches, weirdos, and those who admit to no label other than the one on their favourite bottle of drain cleaner cocktail.
These pages may contain pearls of wisdom, nuggets of truth, illuminating insights into the frailty of the human condition and the ultimage nobility of the knowledge that ones own existence is pointless, futile and transitory.
Or they may contain pearls of snot, nuggets of shite, and the blood drenched darkess of the struggle for survival in a universe that's doing its level best to kill us every second of every hour of every day.
In either case. I shall do my best to make sure that they're never dull...
Even the insignificant things I've forced myself to scrawl incoherently in these pages are more insignificant than I might usually bother to waste the time of any remaining reader, and indeed my own time cronicling.
I'd love to say "oh but there's been a good reason".
But it would be a lie, and a transparent one at that.
There have been some bad reasons, a whole slew of petty irritations ranging from my oft precarious state of health through my increasingly precarious mental state to the ever fragile state of the united states, surrounding territories and hangers on. Including this sceptered isle, now a wretched hive of scum and villany.
But reading back through the pages of this journal with their multifarious blood, sweat, and tear stains, grubby thumb prints and occasional suspicious sticky patches I have learned one thing.
Sometimes I need to write shit down to get it out of my head.
A mental house cleaning, a psychological sweep away of the dust and debris caused by simply living in the same psyche for extended periods of time.
Ladies, Gentlemen, boys, girls, sluts, letches, weirdos, and those who admit to no label other than the one on their favourite bottle of drain cleaner cocktail.
These pages may contain pearls of wisdom, nuggets of truth, illuminating insights into the frailty of the human condition and the ultimage nobility of the knowledge that ones own existence is pointless, futile and transitory.
Or they may contain pearls of snot, nuggets of shite, and the blood drenched darkess of the struggle for survival in a universe that's doing its level best to kill us every second of every hour of every day.
In either case. I shall do my best to make sure that they're never dull...