(no subject)
My mood is moving like a metronome between an apathetic tranquility and a berserk anxiety. There's this wicked anticipation that I am trying to combat with certitude. The futility of simply saying "I can" is enhanced by the heavy wave of miscellaneous debris (the objects and words and people lazing about as obstacles). Certainly, everything is caught in the spiral of bias, and twisted so grotesquely that ordinary things become abominations, unstoppable, and indestructible; it is the way things go. A gun becomes a cannon, a fly a wasp, a needle a dagger, and so on. So, am I subject to the prods and pricks without any defense? To not fight is simply to communicate a desire for pity. Stop, stop, stop, because I haven't the strength or will to rebuke you.
It is petulant, reeling and writhing in this self deprecation, because I can review my woes and see a certain standard wound, and with enough cooing and petting, relieve the agitation-- enough to limp forward, or be dragged by the gravity of my goal.
It is petulant, reeling and writhing in this self deprecation, because I can review my woes and see a certain standard wound, and with enough cooing and petting, relieve the agitation-- enough to limp forward, or be dragged by the gravity of my goal.