Been scraping along. It’s getting harder to drag my body through the dirt but I keep on going. I don’t really know why, and I don’t really know my destination. But I keep going.
Sometimes the sun comes up and it burns, it makes me tired, it shines in my eyes and I crinkle my face, I can’t see. Then sometimes it’s so dark and cold that I am afraid, and I am not sure of what’s right in front of me.
It rhymes. That’s funny. It wasn’t supposed to.
But yes, it’s difficult. I wish I could be more automatic, so I wouldn’t have to think, but unfortunately it is not the case – I am imperfect and I have to live with it. There used to be columns here, great Doric architecture, but they’re long gone now. It’s only ash and dirt and grime. The sky has more personality than me, all of my output is false. I don’t really know how I feel or think about anything, not really. It’s all a functional deception. It’s not that I am deceiving myself for any great moral reason. It’s just easier. I’m lazy, I think. Emotionally. Mentally.
Sometimes I am just waiting for the order to shut down. It would be so much easier than this. But sometimes I am filled with optimism and think that maybe things will improve. Everything is grey and I am blinded by the constant flow of dust.
But of course, in spite of everything, I carry on. Time passes. Trees are born, wither, fall. Thousands of years pass in a second. Time passes so quickly and so slowly, but always so pointlessly, for me, trapped in the middle. I don’t know what I shall do.