I’m floating in outerspace with weights on my arms. The mice crawl on me when I’m sleeping, I never know about it, so I can’t promise that they do, but I know that there are mice in the house. And I dream of bald headed eagles wearing dead dog heads as masks and I wonder what it all means. I’m not all that political.
I’m always wondering about where life will take me with a pit in my stomach that I’ll never go anywhere. But the pit feels substantial. A heavy weight of emptiness. I wish it was more motivating, but somehow it just keeps me in a passionately apathetic, apathetically passionate rut.
I’ve done a lot of bad things, I’ve hurt a lot of good people and all I want to do is get through this thing alive, but I don’t wanna live forever.
My co-worker said to me recently: "In the history of the human race, nobody gets out of this thing alive....I got that from a friend of mine who is no longer with us....I guess that's a bit dark." Being "real" in our culture is always considered dark. We all pretend that this shit doesn't end.
I’m gonna try to keep this plant alive that I bought for my ex boyfriend when we were still together that he kept forgetting to take home with him. I have to remember to water it. Not for any real reason, I just need to prove that I have some follow through. I guess that’s a reason.
The layers of fog are so thick in the person that people are. I believe in souls lately, but I’m not sure about ghosts. I want to be a good person but I can be so cruel. I can be so goddamn awful. I’m a shit sometimes. A real turd ball.
And the complexity of the obvious kills me. Obvious complexity is a puzzle that isn’t supposed to be solved because it’s already put together by someone higher than you, someone who doesn’t exist. The corporation is an individual and individualism is a corporation. And I laugh at myself for being sad about it, because it doesn’t really matter. But it matters a lot. But "we all just die in the end" is always my excuse and my curse. And I stand still as I get older. And one day I will just be old. Nobody cares about old people. Unless it’s your grandmother. And I have a feeling I’ll never be a mother. And if I am I will ruin that kid’s life by being too honest about life. But maybe they’ll turn out all right in the end because of it.
I get stuck in the paradoxical circles of human behavior. The whole “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” crap. I’ve always preferred people who think everything in life is shit, but I have an optimism in me that life is actually really quite beautiful, even the suffering. Then I create situations that will make me suffer just to feel my pulse again. And I‘m getting too old to be like that but I can’t ever seem to be comfortable any other way for very long.
In the end I’m trite as hell but people think I’m interesting. I think I’m probably just mentally unstable. But I always think I’m so real. So authentic. God. Oh God. Authenticity is impossible, especially when that’s what you think you are.