How can i write with the tv on. How could i write with the music playing. How can i do anything under any circumstance without the optimal ideal. I create the optimal ideal and then abandon it in search of some other shiny thing, like a crow.
If i could get out of bed and just think for a minute. See things, maybe something different from what a choose to see. I choose the snooze button, then looking out the curtainless window at the top of the garage, and past to the power lines. My vibrator calls to me from the laundry hamper-bedside table, but i know that it doesn't satisfy. I choose to get up and engross myself in myself in the mirror and in front of the closet, in the burbs like all the other girls. Can i really pretend it was ever any different than this. Now that ive found this life, its shininess has also dulled, and the old dull life looks new again. I am the evil product that i disdain in others. Compelled to consume and never be happy, thus consuming more and more and never feeling sated. Weeks after a holiday not sated for travel, mid sip in coffee and thirsting for something else, halfway done pouring the juice and anticipating the almonds later. Never still, never happy.
Sleep was shitty that night. she couldn't get warm and couldn't get to sleep. There were thoughts that were forbidden. Not for sale, not for offer, not to bargain or trade. A decision was coming, a hard one, a puzzling one. Was the problem really her domestication? Was she ever free to begin with? She might have placed the responsibility for her direction on a man, but it wasn't his decision. She had made the choice for both of them, and was now turning in on herself. She had submitted to the school, and had been accepted, after over a year of waiting, in the final months before victory, she turned away from her prize before she even knew it was hers.
How much more shittiness it there in here to spew out? Crappy vacillation, attempting to validate oneself. Trying to make rational my very existence. Didn't i do this already, when i was a teenager? Haven't i had enough of these thoughts? I wonder what the point is really, if my life is to be spent on the pursuit of money at the expense of myself. I thought i had things to put into the world, i thought that somewhere in my sub cockle area there was some nugget of beauty i could bring. Music, words, art, anything at all. What is my purpose if not to bring that. Am i supposed to go through life without choosing a thing because im incapable of sticking to it; maybe i know that deep in that cockle theres nothing but ash and tumbleweed and shards of glass, and if i bend myself too far over, and really see the wasteland inside i don't know what id do.
takecare.