i'm writing this by the no-light of the night sky. suppose there must be a moon up there somewere - something's back-lighting those clouds... i'm kneeling on my bed, one leg against the wall, which is cold, this piece of paper on my window ledge, a folded square of slightly pale, paler darkness, my handwriting scratches on its surface. but the lines are always dissolving - lighter and darker atoms splitting and reforming in front of my squinting eyes. i can just about read what i've written.
my lightbulb's gone, it's late, i shd sleep. i don't even know why i'm recording this, don't know what it is i'm supposed to be saying.
today was work, a work day, an absence, the afternoon one long drag, a procession of hours passing for no apparent reason. i got home, i napped, i tackled most of the to-dos on my to-do list (none of the important ones). i made another (longer) list. it depresses me to even think about it.
all my emotions evaporate, no memory stays, no experience holds off for long the weight of this fucking sadness that sits behind everything (the moon behind the clouds).
it's only in writing. it's only in doing what i do uniquely there's a place for me, there's a point to me.
i have to up the work rate.
'cause you can mainline on pleasure all you want and still be full of only emptiness.
no stars tonite. just a smothering blanket of cloud.
i'm not depressed, and i'm not depressive. it's just the lull between chemical reactions, the space between trapezes. it's just stress, the pull of gravity, friction, inertia, fatigue...