I don’t know what to say. I guess I have to admit that, at the end of the day, I am not handling my solitude well. I am given privacy and free time and what do I make of it. Utter shit. Fuck, I’m useless.
So I have to admit, at the end of the day, that I really am one thing (well not just one thing but this works literary device here): lonely.
If you stumble upon me on the internet here and have the slightest inkling of interacting, please do not hold back.
It’s so empty and… well, lonely. There’s people everywhere, and it seems like no one to talk to.
I don’t know how it works.
I have things to do. But I think that’s not important. We have money. Brother will work to the ground to support his family. Why should I worry? We can’t stop him, either. He won’t even take a vacation with us, in favor of just working his ass off. “It’s a busy time,” he says. His slave driver management. He’s cool with it. Work keeps his depression at bay. I figure it that way, at least.
It’s just, what bothers me so much, is that writing in here, has started to seem like tossing my words, my voice, my soul, into a garbage compactor. The shit bin. It’s such a waste of my life. And I don’t want to waste my life like that. I want my writing to mean something. Even in its basest form. I want to have an audience to reach out to, individuals to communicate with, changes to engender. None of this seems to be here. I mean, I have to admit the fact that I do have a (small) audience. You guys like my posts. I don’t know if you read them but what proof will there ever be. I’d have to interrogate you about what I wrote. Heh. That’d be funny, no? Like a class lecture about my blog post(s).
There’s so many little things that bum me out. I don’t take my pauses well. I think, I’m lost. I’m really lost. But if I can just be okay, just be okay, literally, as pragmatically and factually as possible, just be okay, instead of striving for this goal or ambition and this where I am is inferior to where I’m going, no. Now, it is okay now. It has to be. And if I can do that, I won’t feel so bad.
I bought Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said, by Philip K. Dick. He’s a sci-fi author. Some very good work. He wrote the story/novel that inspired what’s it called, um, … Blade Runner. Yeah. The book is called Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. I can’t remember if I read it. I read something by him and I really liked it. Some really fun concepts to play around with.
Of course, I don’t read anymore these days.
I woke up at 6, approx, this day. Today. This morning. It felt really good. But of course, no activities were calling to me and the void sort of caught up to me. So here I am now, doing nothing, and being ultra-attentive to the nothing that I’m doing, being a nervous wreck about it, quite literally. Can’t just relax.
I love you. I love you so much. You souls who find me, and even you who do not know me. We share such a deep connection. Please don’t waste it.
I don’t know. I just want to talk to Nick and blow some time with him. Have someone who just understands. Who just understands. Understands what? Ask that question and you don’t understand.
I should get engaged in my studies. It could distract me from the vice of existence. Strange phrase there.
I slouch. My abs are so weak. My back. All my body, is just losing muscle mass. It’s painful to be aware of. I need to play a sport. Do something. Fuck.
There are 12 books on my desk. Meaning, that I’m “reading”. Slowly. Read a page, come back to it in five months.
This is progress, on the cosmic scale. It is.
But who am I, this impatient petulant human? To rush things so.
Who am I?