(no subject)
I didn't really expect to be updating this thing ever again, for no reason more significant than a gently waning interest. Today my email-o-matic says to me "Livejournal Comment" and I think "my, how strange, seeing as I haven't updated in the last two months" So I open said comment and it is posted anonymously and it says "Your writing makes me feel like I'm on a road trip down the coast on a sunny day with acoustic indie rock blaring...happy, hopeful, inspired, and very much alive." So there you have it. Maybe I'm a whore for praise. It's not important. We all do what we can. I am writhing with the snakes of nameless anxiety. Increasingly of the opinion that being alive is just too damn much work. State of perpetual exhaustion. Want to live in a tree. My life is flooded with love. I am obsessed with the phrase 'synthetic flying machine' broken into thousand rythms in my head all day long. Pretend you are a crocodile and everything will be okay. Trust me. I used to be so hopeful about the future. My daydreams have never been framed within possible reality. All of my options are dissappointing. Tell me again why I can't be a manta ray. I could be a manta ray with a tiny suitcase visiting old friends. I have brought gifts for their children in my suitcase and everyone is so goddamned happy to see me. The children call me uncle nick even though they are humans and I am obviously a stealthy sea creature. I tell them of my travels beside the fireplace. It is winter. They urge me to stay the night, but I explain to them that manta rays don't wear pajamas and must be always on the go. That is why we have suitcases. Good bye children, and I am undulating off through the night air, for there will always be more houses to visit. I have been alive for a thousand years and I have more friends than Jesus.