Fly Molo's Journal

I’m not really sure about whats going on in my life at the moment. I am slipping farther and farther into a sort of depression and isolation all the time. Maybe not slipping at all. Maybe not farther at all, just the same miserable stagnant place all the time.

Wishing to keep the words from keeping themselves from pouring out. My head feels full all the time, like one of those overstuffed potatoes. Any minute now it could split open and spill out my bacon brain and sour cream dreams. But I can’t figure out how to put the thoughts into words. I long for that sort of communication, that sort of connection to anyone or anything. I imagine myself staying up late, uncharacteristically sober and energetic, talking away hours with some woman I can’t put a face or name to. I imagine being able to open the flood gates and let it all out in some giant wave of tears and words and emotion. Even imagining it brings me some sort of sense of phantom relief. Allows me to unbend my back from the weight of all the constant nothing in my life, and the ever-present knowledge that the nothing I do is responsible.

And still now I interrupt myself to take another hit. It’s easy to get along with boredom when you haven’t the sense enough to know you’re bored. I’d actually really love to be doing something, but even thinking about the things which I would like to do in an ideal world makes the room feel a few feet smaller. Everything crowds in around my chest and I tighten up at the thought of it all, the thought of failure. At least that’s what I tell myself these days. I find myself worrying that this latest illusory anxiety is just another in a long list of conjured fears and ethereal depressions called to arms in the on-going battle to convince myself I’m not just lazy and worthless. Even here every word is calculated. All the sentences thought out. Even the grammar lacks any kind of spontaneity. I can’t seem to keep myself from going back and fixing any of those squiggly colored lines that appear every time I misspell a word or create another fragment of a thought. Everything seems to be that way in my head, or at least I’m afraid it is. Regardless of how smart I may think I am, I can truthfully probably only account for about as many of my thoughts and about as many of the processes which lead me from A to B as anyone else. I don’t really know that I’m not just selling snake-oil. It’s all just the finely groomed plumage of the world’s first and greatest robot peacock, the acutely articulated mathematics of social exchange, with me balancing the equation in my favor.

It’s impossibly clear to me that I feel devoid of character without the relative constant affects of others. Or is it effects? All I want is affection. Or is it affectation? I don’t trust myself to want the real thing. I don’t trust myself to give the real thing.

This all wound up being much more stream of thought then I thought it would, which is good. It leaves me feeling pretty good. It feels like maybe something came out. I feel a little less full. With all the uncertainty in my head I can’t be really certain of the worst.

Current Mood: thirsty
Current Music: tool - lateralus

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