Sunday Morning Thoughts 11.13.11

I’m going to have to start going more than a few days before I sulk back to the feeling of nothingness that seems to be unavoidable these days, weeks, months, years. It’s not like it’s going to be over any time soon. Nor will it get better. Life is only going to grow more difficult and tragic as it goes on. You can’t dodge it and the whole of our existence is just trying to find ways to accept and ideally embrace our mortality. All the people I know and care for and think about will die. Yes that means you. It means that you and I and your sister and my brother and Danny Di Vito will all die.

We won’t breathe anymore and slowly our bodies will decompose and be soaked up by the living sacred ground. We’re plant food, but I imagine the flower that will grow from you will be beautiful. Maybe a nice little rose decorated with thorns and clichés. Pleasant to the eye but the very touch can draw blood. I’ll be a dandelion because I’m not really the flower type. Or I’ll be the kind that is sold for a couple bucks for a whole bunch by the Arabian guy on the street corner. The kind a broke kid gets for a girl if she’s a pretty actress or something like that.

Every moment I don’t take a step forward is wasted. Wasted like a kid who isn’t as good at drinking beer as he would like to think because he had too much and puked and then passed out at like 8pm. Identity issues are really nothing more that excuses. They’re excuses to wait around and hope that everything will just get done for you, or at least that’s what I use them for. I make excuses to myself all the time to be able to justify inaction. It’s absurd but changing it seems to be a temporary thing. Maybe a few days I get that gusto to march ahead, but it’ll just turn to nothing if I drink too much or watch a movie or something that makes me think about something and slowly but surely that thought will bum me out and it’s say goodbye to motivation.

Man, who listens to this crap? I mean seriously dude.

Anyway there’s more to do today that has to get done. I’ll have no time in which to do it, but that’s perfectly fine. I need to do things all the time or I may go mad. I hate the hesitation in my every thought and move. I’m stuck because I have so kind of bullshit hesitation in everything that I can conceive of doing. I think and think and think and think and yet nothing ever seems to come of it. There could be so fucking much and there is so little. I mean, it’s not that little, but it definitely could be bigger.

I should grab a cup of coffee… yeah. Some good old caffeine to jolt the system. If only the complaints led to anything but the constant gnawing at the edge of consciousness does nothing. Thoughts build and grow dark and freezes on contact until there is nothing. Like there is now.

I hate that. I hate that feeling of complete shit when there is bullshit in the way of everything. Simple ideas and tasks cannot be set forth because of something stupid. It’s infuriating! Fuck! Now I’ve got to wait on this person to tell this person something, but I could have told them both sooner and I get mad because I fucked up and now have to deal with those consequences and that makes me pout and shit my pants and do nothing at all that is productive and if I want to just keep this one sentence going until I feel that it has run its course then so be it, it is my choice and here I am making it.

All these words and yet nothing is said. If this were a painting, it would be stick figures that were painted with the fingers of a six year old. There’s probably a booger in there. Doesn’t feel to reassuring but what ever does? What is ever said that is really of any true comfort? We all still die, and alone. Your final moments are the full concept that encompasses the idea that is your existence. It is not anyone else but you. There will be parts featuring other people, but you only see them. If you see anything at all, who knows? You could be killed instantly or could be too zonked out on dope. It doesn’t matter where you get it, street or the hospital, it’ll fry your brain. What do 96 year old women and hardcore drug addicts have in common?

I wonder which I will be? Addict or old woman? Either are fairly likely. But I suppose this has run its course and it’s time to do stuff. I just wish I was cooler about this shit.


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