What’s the secret of my success you ask?
I like to spend several quiet hours in the morning resentful of having to work instead of just being. This resentment carries me through a day and leaves me exhausted to do anything in the evenings.
All of my thoughts become novels. All of my novels are unfinished. And so it goes day to day, nothing mattering enough to finish. Poor efforts with anything consequential.
I know it’s not what I want
But I desperately want everyone to stop needing me
For my work not to be so reliant on other people
To shut myself off from all associations
And to be accountable to no one but myself
This is not possible but a feeling I frequently have
The uncertain world
Fogs the valley on our way
Moments of sunlight.
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First I see through a glass darkly…
The way forward is often cloudy, confusing, full of fear, but I must move forward with as much love and bravery as I can muster.
The road to Hades
is paved with good intentions
and slightly porous cement
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“Hades” because Hell lacks a crucial syllable
Endlessly scrolling
Hoping to find some old words
ancient melodies
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We really need to be calling out artists’ lyric choices more. “Her harlequin hovers nearby”? Is it the tears of a clown? Or is it Stephen King’s eponymous clown?
Instagram-designed for photos. Auto-crops and ruins regular pics.
Facebook-a place to connect to good friends. Suggests random people you hate.
Twitter-was short status updates. Now long thread essays.