Double header
I can't bear this silence. I keep forgetting to do things, like eat and sleep normally and it's just writing and passing out and waking up with increasingly more interesting patterns on my face. I've talked to three people today and they've all told me they're varying shades of miserable as well. Wandering about, unable to focus on anything, get things done, finish a meal cobbled together out of things that only require heating. Bursting into tears over nothing significant, with this nebulous desperation, frustration and craving for something undefinable. I don't know what I want, but I fucking need it. Everything seems so grey today. The sun was out but it didn't seem to mean it. It was just an errand, a celestial tick box on the to-do list after Be Fiery, and I remembered this relentlessly paced song someone played for me once and he paced while it went on, and I couldn't bear the pressure of that motion and this song and those words, the only ones I could make out "and I am the sun" and I had to leave the room. I think I just about understand it now and I wish I could find it to apologise for opposing neuroses at the time of our last meeting.
How telling, all of this, the projection of empty obligation fulfillment and disinterest where once there was fiery purpose onto the life giver that could take us all out in a burst, or over the course of years. It's not a leap to imagine why one would fall into worship. And we're back to the Self again. I think my ego has an ego of its own.
But it's not for no reason that this feeling sits in my chest with its feet on my belly. I just can't even bear to say it. It seems like sacrilege.
I want to chastise everyone, turn it all outward instead of in, but it wouldn't work. I'd start laughing halfway through and have to be carried to the car and given a glass of water because that's what you do in England when you're not near enough to a kettle for an emergency.
I keep bothering the living mess out of my inordinately quiet children with ridiculous questions about what they're thinking and what that doll, sorry, action figure is from and why and what's his history and who are these other people and why do they have such enormous necks, until they get frustrated and show me the door which I've seen slammed a few times for exactly the opposite reason to this one. Then I have to find something else to do and it's usually work that nags me toward it, so of course I hover around the pile of pages until I realise it's high time to address that dire need to make something smell like cloves. I'm writing about Siamese twins. Not just conjoined twins, but real Siamese ones, and I probably shouldn't be, as that's really been taken care of. But I'm compelled to thread this needle through my off time and my OFF time, the illusion of responsibility. And there are warm gingerbread men. Don't taste them yet, let's just have this moment when you thought I was a great dad for a little while longer.
You shouldn't whisper these things where people can hear them. Holy Moses, my stream of consciousness needs parting.
I'm growing that bewildering mustache again. And the pharoh takes a tumble.
How telling, all of this, the projection of empty obligation fulfillment and disinterest where once there was fiery purpose onto the life giver that could take us all out in a burst, or over the course of years. It's not a leap to imagine why one would fall into worship. And we're back to the Self again. I think my ego has an ego of its own.
But it's not for no reason that this feeling sits in my chest with its feet on my belly. I just can't even bear to say it. It seems like sacrilege.
I want to chastise everyone, turn it all outward instead of in, but it wouldn't work. I'd start laughing halfway through and have to be carried to the car and given a glass of water because that's what you do in England when you're not near enough to a kettle for an emergency.
I keep bothering the living mess out of my inordinately quiet children with ridiculous questions about what they're thinking and what that doll, sorry, action figure is from and why and what's his history and who are these other people and why do they have such enormous necks, until they get frustrated and show me the door which I've seen slammed a few times for exactly the opposite reason to this one. Then I have to find something else to do and it's usually work that nags me toward it, so of course I hover around the pile of pages until I realise it's high time to address that dire need to make something smell like cloves. I'm writing about Siamese twins. Not just conjoined twins, but real Siamese ones, and I probably shouldn't be, as that's really been taken care of. But I'm compelled to thread this needle through my off time and my OFF time, the illusion of responsibility. And there are warm gingerbread men. Don't taste them yet, let's just have this moment when you thought I was a great dad for a little while longer.
You shouldn't whisper these things where people can hear them. Holy Moses, my stream of consciousness needs parting.
I'm growing that bewildering mustache again. And the pharoh takes a tumble.