I'm tired of the televison. Tired of small screens, glowing, all reminders of what I'm not doing, what I could have done, tenacious in their goading insistence of my own potential ruin. It has become increasingly easier to be irrevocable. To say things I shouldn't, that I probably don't even mean. But man. That shit looks pretty.
Keeping my head in a box has more or less got me here. Here, in the literal, figurative, whatever. My life. Breathe it in. I spent so many years trying not to reach ends, or find conclusions, that I've gotten so accustomed to this vague ambiguity. I put a lot of stock into tomorrow. Anymore, I can't make predictions. My predictions always sucked, anyway.
I don't even know what I'm chasing half the time; constantly striving towards some opaque future of muted colors and flitting shadows. That is what happens when you lose your passion. Life in general gets a bit watery.
So, what. Stir shit up with some half-realized intention of solidarity. But I can't force it anymore. I can't keep enforcing an ideology that isn't there. I can't engineer honest emotion. Nights like this? I have apathy, whiskey, and cigarettes. I'm choking on my own fucking inability to confront the nasty bits. Even my intended stirring is rife with cowardice. I do these things because I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what I've become, and how my meager existence will pan out by remaining in this space. I don't have much concept of the theoretical big picture. I focus on fragments. Moments. And all of this is so fucking rote.
This is a mistake. The wrong means to the wrong end, as they say. But what wouldn't be. Inaction, action ... the time for delicacy has long passed, if it ever existed.
So I don't care. Do whatever you want with this. I have no input, instructions, precision with sentences. I feel fucking broken and haphazard and out of place. This applies to any number of realities.
I should probably just go to sleep.
Nobody talk to me. Nobody human has anything to say to me today.
