The self-reflective, self-reflexive thing hasn’t been binged away. I tried it twice, it didn’t work. Probably next week I’ll try it again [you know where, let’s make it a Sunday]. If anything I’m worse. Actually, I am worse. I’m downright vicious at least half the time now. Harsh and striking out; at my pissed-off scorpion best. Best, worst – do they have actual meanings? Too, too relative. I know neither what I’m saying nor what I’m doing. The words have lost meaning, the meaning is lost, the point is beyond non-describing.
Shall I share a line of conversation with you? Drunken, quiet naturally, honest, quite naturally, painful, quite naturally. She told me I had to start loving myself. What a concept. What is self-love? What is love? Is it really a real thing? Is it a bundle of our fears and inadequacies? Is it grasping and painful? How can I be so old and not even know?
More and more, I know less and less, it’ll kill me sooner or later. Madness brought on by the sheer rationality of my irrationality – or is that the other way around? A cheerful note on which to end the day.
I think I have a cold. It shits me immensely. See how fast the trivia returns? Oh yea.
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There are angels in your angels
There’s a low moon caught in your tangles
There’s a ticking at the sill
There’s a purr of a pigeon to break the still of the day
As on we go drowning
Down we go away
And darling, we go a-drowning
Dow we go away
There’s a tough word on your crossword
There’s a bedbug nipping a finger
There’s a swallow, there’s a calm
Here’s a hand to lay on your open palm today
The Decemberists - and rather caught in my head.
Love...is for the loved, I think.
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