Friday, September 24, 2021, 7:52 am
No words
Then, suddenly, I have nothing to say.
I’m not reading. I’m not writing. I’m certainly not fucking. Hell, I’m not even drinking.
What’s the matter with me? And what have I been doing?
Well, I feel caught up on sleep for the first time in ages. And I have been sitting on the futon and staring at the wall.
Once again, I find myself not knowing what I want. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. I don’t (necessarily) want to stay. And the miser inside doesn’t want to spend the money to go anywhere.
Yet, he’s okay with collecting again. In the middle of a purge. Bastard.
People keep stealing my pens. And I walked away from a perfectly good set of glasses. And measuring cups.
And there are always books. Books that sit on the shelf. Never getting read.
Okay, never isn’t the right word. For I know I’ll read again. I just can’t get into the book I’m currently reading.
Perhaps, because I still don’t believe in love. Pleasures of the flesh? Yes. And the chemical high that produces? Yes. But love? True love? No. I don’t think so.
To the point where I don’t even want to meet some beauty and have some fun. This. This is my tragedy. Because girls just want to have fun. So, why shouldn’t I?
Instead, I appease my monkey-mind by collecting. And consuming. More. MoRe. MORE. MOAR!!
I had a list of goals for the summer. I hit all but one, which was beyond my control. Maybe not entirely.
I like things easy. I wanted to be in Bucharest. Right. Now. Along came Delta, and increased flight times. And increased flight budgets. So I postponed. Again.
It was during my “rational” explanation of this to a friend that I discovered “I don’t want…” a lot.
It’s true. I don’t want to do anything. Often, I don’t. Do I like my life? Most of the time, I think I do.
I only question when the Amazon packages arrive. In the middle of the purge.
And when I’m not reading. Nor writing. Nor fucking. Nor even drinking.
It’s okay though. Everything will be okay.
Pop Smoke, Lil Tjay
Shoot for the Stars, Aim for the Moon