the only way out is through the only way out is through the only way out is through
i wanted to make something desperately, so i am making something. having standards for it is not where i’m at right now, because it’s way too easy to not make anything right now. i can feel myself rusting, feel my brain calcifying. at the very top of my head a tiny me is there, screaming to be let out to do something, anything.
TAKE A WALK TAKE A WALK TAKE A WALK TAKE A WALK TAKE A WALK TAKE A WALK TAKE A WALK TAKE A WALK TAKE A WALK TAKE A WALK TAKE A WALK TAKE A WALK TAKE A WALK TAKE A WALK
[X] [X] [X] [X] [X] [X] [X] [X] [X] [X] [X] [X] [X] [X]
perhaps there is nothing left to look forward to anymore
I find myself caught between picking fights and planning for now, for later, obsessively trying to build myself— determined that this is my chrysalis, I am the mush and I will be back soon, bigger and better and more put together than ever, and don’t you forget it! I find myself looking at old pictures of me, thinking how much nicer I used to look. Growing out my hair—partly because there’s no other option—to tap into something I once was. A time I once had. But I am here and this is now and I hate it! There are no feelings left for this except anger and numbness and the distinct feeling that I won’t be able to milk it for anything good until it is gone.
in times like these, I like to redirect myself to Auden: To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die. Maybe referencing someone else’s work in my own so directly is a bit weak, but I have been thinking a lot about the purpose of standing where I do and where we do, and I have been thinking about my place in things, and I don’t like what I am seeing.