367 -- day 92
i've stopped asking my daydreams to produce miracles.
i'd just like the slowly draining quality of my accountability to edge itself against the side of a cliff.
and let the wind push its final good-bye.
i'd like to stop having sex with guilt. it feels like watching a virgin fold her underwear before getting into bed. sweet and painful.
i'd like to be more functional on wednesday's.
on stage.
during dinner parties.
in interviews.
buying coffee.
"...your order sir? you're holding up the line..."
most days,
a latte
is my greatest
triumph.
i have 600 phone calls to make.
3 emails.
4 people to repay.
8 years of my youth to collect...
i need to actually make my therapy appointments.
my bed is often left unmade. high crime for the ocd.
i was messy in my youth. i'm nostalgic for the collection of dust i would scrawl messages in under my bed.
see, insanity is exhausting.
people think admitting it is the challenge...but a testament to ownership is simple. surviving the everyday with it, after ownership is claimed,
now that is the shit that leaves sweat stains on your clothes.
i've been doing laundry nearly everyday for weeks.
nothing is clean.
the dust in the air
keeps me up at night.
people threw their hands up and danced around me at one point.
"we did it,"
they said,
"we burned the witch,"...
but a tea party does not satiate the birthday of a mad hatter...
you must make it through all of wonderland
balancing tea cups on your head.
you must speak to every flower.
feed every cat.
survive the playground for both god and the devil.
when god is the devil.
and you are god.
religion,
makes so much sense now
i think priests must quiver in their sleep.