2003-12-12 23:20:03 (UTC)

hanging out around nothing

I've formed a virtual copulsion toward doing as little as possible with my
days. I have been washing my laundry for about a week and a half, and
as we speak the last chapter in my epic cycle (no pun in ten did) is about
complete. I need to find a new way of living, something that pushed me
up from under the suffocating ceiling of my self-imposed isolation. By
hours and inches it seemd as if I want to just do nothing. really. nothing.
It's as if I truly have nop more inititive. I'm scared by the fact that I'm
forgetting words. I often feel as if my life has become a time lapse
photograph of my brain sitting on some cosmic counter slowly
atrophying. Some of the reasons are quite obvious, I don't take good
care of myself and I take worse care of my responsibilities and those I
am responsible to. Whole days, whole hours just float by me. I have
gotten caught in some damn tidepool and find myself now standing
ankle deep looking at the frgid fast moving world utterly disinterested in
plunging in. Is there a cure for severe apathy? Could this truly be a
disease? Everything I actuall;y do is worthless. I work to pay the bills, I
hang out to get drunk I confess love to geet sex. Nothing worthwhile
passes through me, only around me. Every way I look I am fascinated in
the lives of others mostly because they are living them, whereas I am just
witnessing mine go past me. When I sit and write, I feel utterly defeated
because it will not be a novel. Music makes me hopeless because it will
not make a star out of me. I watch the pointless yet fascinating details
of the great movies I love, wanting to wake up and find myself there,
knowing that I have done NOTHING to make it my life except desire
pitifully and fruitlessly for it to become so. I feel no fire, I have not heat
nor momentum I am standing still and qucikly forgetting how to use the
hands for anything at all. This is now a private diary. I am writing this
for noone but me, and yet I still feel them peering over my shoulder. I
feel the danger of confession quite tangibly on the back of my neck. It is
now 3:17 PM on Friday, December 12th, 2003. I am now going to take a
shower, stare at stuff, go to work, get frustrated at how much I feel
trapped and hopeless in my job, and then perhaps hang out with my
girlfriend for whom my heart has grown cold and then get fucked up on
drugs or alcohol. rinse. repeat. I wonder how long till I read this again.