It's in this Form Because I'm too Tired to Edit it (Angry With Myself)

I'm sitting in my room. the sun is down. I could write something about how it hides from me, but how clever would any endeavor at personification be coming from me? Surely not very. So now I say things just as they are, and if you're reading this the reasons are self-explanatory. I used to feel so proud when I would write something morbid or scary, but those feelings come so rarely that all I feel now is disordered and wary. Once I effortlessly spun webs of intuition and wonders, and now my proudest works are my greatest blunders. I visit this place to give encouragement and well wishes, but the spiders that translated are tired, mangled, and in stitches.



I mean, it fucking hurts to wake up and want to make a difference, but feel so foggy in the head you can't use inference. There is no progression, no direction. No growth, and no retention. I haven't changed in years, I'm standing where I started, and if I started in the dumps, I guess that makes me garbage. Maybe that's why I left, why I feel so guarded? If I ran and never come back, I wouldn't feel so outsmarted. I don't entertain. I don't spark a flame, I don't inspire and I don't explain anything worth knowing. Maybe it's time that I stop writing, stop trying, and get going.