Theme for the week: I don't know. Everything keeps slip-sliding. Even the little successes get washed up in the current, eddies, eddies, eddies. I wish eagle-like I could fly above it all. I wish I knew where to put in the right amount of work, the right amount of fear.
The new music—Ninja High School, Inside Out, more Trap Them—has been nice. I only feel like I'm always hungry. More, more. I'm a glutton of the worst kind. It doesn't show on my body—at least, not yet, of course—but I can't stop consuming. I want to read everything, to write everything, to do everything. I want everyone to love me, to want me. I can't stop. I can't.
At least I made a step towards keeping myself linked in. Neon colourchrome giant chain pictures across a swath of black. We're having a party. You're invited. It's going to fuck your bones until you cry out 'rhythm!' and bruise your fucking brain black. This, in my head, is how everyone lives, outside, at night. And tonight: more games, more toying, more eyeing and shying and dying. Maybe Sunday I'll tell my parents. I don't think it would matter. Maybe.
At least I'm too busy to care about the stumblebums in red jerseys and the wrong end of highlight reels. The baby-face beat-down. Let the rest of the city have 'em. I've got too much on my plate to eat my score-words every couple of nights. Besides, I'm always at work, almost, anyway.
I guess that's the real theme of the week. Work. And next week? Less work. Maybe more play? Maybe. Maybe I'll taste the sweet love of victory, and fuck defeat.
Could work.
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1 comment:
I know exactly how you feel.
Like an LOLcat with an existential crisis.
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