It’s not a fucking diary. Resentful, these days. Need to get away and get my head to myself, stop all the buzzing. Make a lot of changes. Try to enjoy anything. Tricky to spark the dead eyes into life.
There must have been a time when bitter, broken, blinded mind was live and lithe and thinking better thoughts? Better give up everything for which I fought – I didn’t mean it, son.
Let’s assess. A fight on several fronts but, I confess, they all run into one when I put my helmet on (and oh, here we have come, return to combat metaphors and stupid half-comparisons just to make my head feel calm and seem that I am doing something worth a damn).
What I have sought to do for my whole life, create, and somehow it is no longer a joy, I am realising too late that all my joy comes from escaping. Is that enjoyment or perceived necessity? Either way, a shame, my mind is messing with me, it is no longer on side.
I can start to think, and build a structure of the life I want, a compromise in places but a focus on myself, but when I think I see all these contraints, that push me back and make my head spin until I feel almost faint. To garner what I want I have to make some choices I would view as unwise…
But I firmly disbelieve all around me. And as such, surely everything is fiction.
You won’t enjoy reading this. I didn’t enjoy writing it. I need to fix what I am doing with my life. I need to reclaim the inside of my head.
There it is again. The buzzing, the scraping.
I’ll grit my teeth.