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Entry tags:
idk, just thinking
I feel like there are less popsicles that have jokes on the sticks than there used to be. my computer refuses to believe 'popsicles' is even a word. has all childlike wonder gone out of the world entirely?
The house is kind of cold but thankfully not too much. another guy from the gas company came to shut off one half of our duplex's gas without bothering to check which half first. this time, thank god, they got it right, and we still have our heat. I wonder not for the first nor probably the last time if this is all there is to life, arguments with strangers and a vague, shapeless, ignorant anger at abstract concepts like 'the gas company' and 'the government.' today while going to the bathroom I stared at the door ahead of me and wondered if this feeling is permanent. will it be like this forever? but then again, I should know better - every time I've gotten comfortable in life, it's been snatched away. things must always change. it's the only constant.
today I sat outside for a while and wrote more of this little pet project that keeps tearing my old wounds back open and stinging them again. it's helping, at least I think. I sewed these wounds shut without cleaning them first and they've been rotting from the inside ever since. they needed to breathe a bit anyway. I keep writing and it keeps unraveling before me and I am really quite proud of it despite the consistent nagging feeling that if anybody got a hold of this and read it they would think it self-aggrandizing and boring. I'm split between posting it and keeping it to myself forever, letting it rot away in obscurity with all the rest of my projects. for now, at least, I think it's fulfilling enough just to be writing it. in the idyllic fantasy of my mind I picture it fully printed, self-designed cover art and all, being held aloft giddily by some book reviewer online. there's a strange belief I've held onto since as far back as I can remember where, if I imagine a future scenario for myself for too long or in too much detail, I'm certain it won't come true - I have spent most of my life stuck in a stalwart refusal to daydream about my daydreams. This is one such thing. I quickly swat at the thought cloud above my head harboring the image so that maybe one day it has the chance to come true.
I'm more than slightly tipsy on grocery store pre-mixed margarita. I was shooting for the Capriccio Sangria, but my local place didn't have it in stock, so I fell back on ol' reliable - Rancho La Gloria. I've just eaten a cranberry fruit punch flavored popsicle. tomorrow I have horrible pressing responsibilities and the drab reality of waking up in a shitty broken-down house with no real plan for life and no hard direction. it all feels incredibly dull.
I have no idea where I was going with this. just sort of writing out my thoughts. I recently started reading The Pale King by David Foster Wallace (as I've tried and failed to start up Infinite Jest multiple times, I theorized that starting with one of his smaller works might ease me into it), as well as Villette by Charlotte Bronte and Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke. I find myself wanting to read all the time yet as soon as I pick up a book it's never the right one. all of my creative projects have fallen by the wayside outside of, at the very least, a little bit of writing. my computer has once again started acting up. but all this to say it's 1:30 in the morning and I should probably go to bed and let all these thoughts float away into my dreams. I'm enjoying reading right now, it's just coming to me slower than it has in the past. my creative projects are waiting for me once it's the right time to pick them up again. there are still cranberry fruit punch flavored popsicles and warm spring weather days and hours of free time that I can spend however I please. I am still alive and as much as I am loathe to believe it during more lucid times I do still enjoy existence. I will make the most of my consciousness. however I can.
The house is kind of cold but thankfully not too much. another guy from the gas company came to shut off one half of our duplex's gas without bothering to check which half first. this time, thank god, they got it right, and we still have our heat. I wonder not for the first nor probably the last time if this is all there is to life, arguments with strangers and a vague, shapeless, ignorant anger at abstract concepts like 'the gas company' and 'the government.' today while going to the bathroom I stared at the door ahead of me and wondered if this feeling is permanent. will it be like this forever? but then again, I should know better - every time I've gotten comfortable in life, it's been snatched away. things must always change. it's the only constant.
today I sat outside for a while and wrote more of this little pet project that keeps tearing my old wounds back open and stinging them again. it's helping, at least I think. I sewed these wounds shut without cleaning them first and they've been rotting from the inside ever since. they needed to breathe a bit anyway. I keep writing and it keeps unraveling before me and I am really quite proud of it despite the consistent nagging feeling that if anybody got a hold of this and read it they would think it self-aggrandizing and boring. I'm split between posting it and keeping it to myself forever, letting it rot away in obscurity with all the rest of my projects. for now, at least, I think it's fulfilling enough just to be writing it. in the idyllic fantasy of my mind I picture it fully printed, self-designed cover art and all, being held aloft giddily by some book reviewer online. there's a strange belief I've held onto since as far back as I can remember where, if I imagine a future scenario for myself for too long or in too much detail, I'm certain it won't come true - I have spent most of my life stuck in a stalwart refusal to daydream about my daydreams. This is one such thing. I quickly swat at the thought cloud above my head harboring the image so that maybe one day it has the chance to come true.
I'm more than slightly tipsy on grocery store pre-mixed margarita. I was shooting for the Capriccio Sangria, but my local place didn't have it in stock, so I fell back on ol' reliable - Rancho La Gloria. I've just eaten a cranberry fruit punch flavored popsicle. tomorrow I have horrible pressing responsibilities and the drab reality of waking up in a shitty broken-down house with no real plan for life and no hard direction. it all feels incredibly dull.
I have no idea where I was going with this. just sort of writing out my thoughts. I recently started reading The Pale King by David Foster Wallace (as I've tried and failed to start up Infinite Jest multiple times, I theorized that starting with one of his smaller works might ease me into it), as well as Villette by Charlotte Bronte and Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke. I find myself wanting to read all the time yet as soon as I pick up a book it's never the right one. all of my creative projects have fallen by the wayside outside of, at the very least, a little bit of writing. my computer has once again started acting up. but all this to say it's 1:30 in the morning and I should probably go to bed and let all these thoughts float away into my dreams. I'm enjoying reading right now, it's just coming to me slower than it has in the past. my creative projects are waiting for me once it's the right time to pick them up again. there are still cranberry fruit punch flavored popsicles and warm spring weather days and hours of free time that I can spend however I please. I am still alive and as much as I am loathe to believe it during more lucid times I do still enjoy existence. I will make the most of my consciousness. however I can.