Moan

Something hard is pressing down on me.

Part of it is myself, pushing me every moment, to make every moment useful, productive, to not become a time-wasting degenerate. It’s getting me down because I am going to waste this evening.

But the most part is not that. It’s something counter, in a vague sort of way I can’t remember.

I was up there with the wind blowing and making those tall limbless trees by that house sway like crazy. And I realized again how I had voluntarily sworn myself to servitude. Servitude to an idea. An idea that a guy is better than me, that he is doing stuff and getting farther away, slowly. Actually pretty fast. I am troubled all the time by images of not becoming anything. I miss peace and reassurance and faith in my self.

About my self, it seems to have taken a long vacation. I really can’t find it like I used to. And all I am as a result is irritated, with a headache.

I need it so bad. I need those scary thoughts about One Life and the rest. I want to feel sad like I used to. Let them bring back the stuff I don’t want, at least maybe they’ll cut short my self’s trip.

There goes the fuck again. I don’t wanna write any more.

Why is it always 7.26 PM when I look? Or 8.26 PM? Is it Murphy’s Law?

1Life.

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