December 10th

Typing with one eye closed to see straight as my brain slowly begins to shut down. Prying words from some mysterious fount deep in the recesses of my brain while the world sleeps. Chasing that high from years ago when I could craft a sentence I was proud to flaunt. But the years keep coming and the subject matter stalls until I’ve got multiple zines attempting to use words to describe something that requires a different medium entirely to even touch upon. I’d probably be able to think straight if the rappers quit expatiating in my ear, but the rockers and pop stars aren’t much less verbose while I use Google to search for words I’ve forgotten. At the end of the process I have nothing to show so, if I removed the beats and melodies, I might as well get enough sleep.

My affection for people dissipates like clockwork yet I am still in awe of what now feels like a past life. I don’t long for what could have been or marvel at what sowing toxic masculinity has forced me to reap because, while I’m far from a fatalist, the end result feels like the way things need to be.

I don’t read as much as I’d like, but sometimes I revisit old books and realize I could live a thousand lifetimes and cut everyone out of my life and I’d still never manage a paragraph like those. Constant television consumption probably doesn’t help, but if I cut that out of my diet I would simply sleep three times longer.