Might have gotten some story words in before the midnight bell rings, but I am quite tired now after a big work event, the first real work event with the new job. It went well. I don’t have much words.
That’s exactly right: I don’t have much words.
So. I feel as though someone gathered up my brain matter and rung it over the sink until anything good or thoughtful was drained out of it and all that’s left is a faintly moist dishrag I am walking about calling a mental capacity. Blergh, I just have to find one hundred words at a time, words about anything, the heat in the room, the gross cheeseburger I ate coming home, the smoothie still next to me coating my teeth.
I could write about you. Dust and ash and not quite forgotten things said and unsaid. Confusion, ultimately, is the emotion that arises when I cast my mind back these couple of months.
I’ve been instructed to say hello to new boys by the therapist. I thought I was willing to tackle doing this without any compunction, but I suppose that the confusion left in Mr. Confusion’s wake still leaves me reticent to continue. I keep thinking that surely, if I could do my level best to charm you and could sit with you for three hours until my arse went numb on the wooden seat in the coffee shop and if I could write to you with sincere and genuine emotion and according to you, evoke the selfsame emotion in you, and still you have no desire to go further having met the body the soul pilots, well, what hope do I really have with some fresh jerk from the internet? It enrages and exhausts me that I could go through all the effort again and find the same short drop and the same sudden stop for someone who makes me feel even less.
It’s a rather despairing thing. Even knowing that is is just how it goes for everyone, this is the only method and the only hope and we just fall into acceptable results, I want to shout at someone. It feels unfair and when I start to unpack and deal with what I feel about this, I’d really rather drink battery acid. So, yes, Mr. Confusion, right now, you, in my mind are less preferable to a splash of battery acid.
Things I love: things working out well enough, not having to fly in at 9 in the morning tomorrow.
Things I am grateful for: that my cousin took the time out of her busy schedule to come down and see us and the effort put into this prelude to a bigger event and I was really delighted to see her.
Wouldn’t it be nice if: I got some real, qualitatively and quantitatively, good writing done tomorrow? If I focused enough at work while I was there to really feel justified in relaxing when I arrived back home. If I could lay on the pavement some night, splayed and stupid, and yield these bumps and aches and kinks to the unforgiving surface below me.