february: a story of an unholy cycle
I've been on such a downward spiral all of February. Quite honestly, I was hoping for an end-of-the-month-recovery; however, like all things in life, it does not come without hard work. Or sacrifice. Have I worked hard or made any sacrifices in the past several weeks? I think not.
Fortunately for myself, between all my live-journaling, and note-taking in general, I have enough notes that I could form some sort of coherent analysis of the past 3 weeks. But, why would I do that? When I can just guess. Sometimes, it is better to see what the memory recalls, rather than digging through the archives. But how do we get one subject to perform both? I suppose I could start with a grandiose promise to begin deciphering the forest from the trees of the past 2 months and start some analysis. I could.
There is always some sort of project we could do or perform. I'm tired of the written word being my primary means of conveyance; however, it the only method in which I do know how to achieve anything. I am trapped by my own isolation. I could, if I knew how to write fiction, be something. But don't those writers who write --obsessively, compulsively, instinctively, --generally know something about the human experience?
Apparently, on days such as today, I am full of questions. Questions leading to a grandiose climax that won't lead to the end of life, that won't lead to the fade to black, but will, no matter how pre-mature and ill-conceived, lead to some sort of easing of tensions. I hope. Who knows.
This entry was another pointless exercise in masturbation, meant solely for my pleasure. Any other pleasure derived from this filth was simply tangential and meant nothing.
p.s. I still need help.
Fortunately for myself, between all my live-journaling, and note-taking in general, I have enough notes that I could form some sort of coherent analysis of the past 3 weeks. But, why would I do that? When I can just guess. Sometimes, it is better to see what the memory recalls, rather than digging through the archives. But how do we get one subject to perform both? I suppose I could start with a grandiose promise to begin deciphering the forest from the trees of the past 2 months and start some analysis. I could.
There is always some sort of project we could do or perform. I'm tired of the written word being my primary means of conveyance; however, it the only method in which I do know how to achieve anything. I am trapped by my own isolation. I could, if I knew how to write fiction, be something. But don't those writers who write --obsessively, compulsively, instinctively, --generally know something about the human experience?
Apparently, on days such as today, I am full of questions. Questions leading to a grandiose climax that won't lead to the end of life, that won't lead to the fade to black, but will, no matter how pre-mature and ill-conceived, lead to some sort of easing of tensions. I hope. Who knows.
This entry was another pointless exercise in masturbation, meant solely for my pleasure. Any other pleasure derived from this filth was simply tangential and meant nothing.
p.s. I still need help.