I used to apologize to my diary.
You know, for not being there for it.
For not writing.
It didn’t care.
And still,
I apologized.
I still do, but I used to, too.
I talked about Two Shitty Daily Pages before,
and then,
didn’t do that.
When all there is left to do,
is to
DO
THE
THING,
why is it so hard to do the thing?
THIS thing?
I’d like to say “it depends,”
Which is a way to avoid the consequence
of self knowledge.
To make excuses.
To leave my mind divided
with a question unfinished.
A crack to squeeze through.
A corner unbackedinto.
Incomplete and thus unadmitted.
I feel like I don’t know what to write about.
Like I have nothing interesting to say, or any novel thoughts.
I’m bored of my own mental loops, so sharing them seems more boring.
If it were “important” it would have gotten posted on Faceblarg for the fake internet points and para-social dopamine release, right? Close app, put down phone, pick up phone, re-open app, put down phone without closing app, just for a second, turn on TV to see if big internet is different, pick up phone, check small internet simultaneously to see if anything changed in eleven seconds.
Oy.
It’s not OK, but it’s normal. We are singularly evolved to seek maximum social contact. To expand our tribe, beyond our family and neighbors to include Fans Of That Guy On The Internet, but definitely *not* Fans Of That Other Guy On The Internet who is bad and we hate him.
Meanwhile,
I’m embarrassed for what I’m not doing.
For staring at the same cardboard box in the living room for weeks,
thinking that some time I’ll have time to recycle it,
if only I can get a break from everything Important I’m doing.
See above.
So, OK.
I’m scared to try things, because if they’re not easy then it makes me feel like I’m not meeting the standards I set for myself. The idea of who I would be when I was GOOD and READY. When all my intentions and drives and experiences and gushing font of life force are focused tightly into a laser beam of… wait, what was I supposed to be doing again?
So I get ready, and get good,
or try anyway,
at least when I’m not too busy.
Getting ready is easy. You don’t even have to actually do anything, you can just pregame your whole life without leaving the couch, constructing infinite possible futures, only to poke them full of holes, and slice them into unrecognizable pieces scattered at your feet to drift under the couch, joining the rest of the evidence that it would have all been a waste of time anyway. I’ll sweep under there eventually. Maybe I should get a Roomba. I could order one on small internet without even standing up.
H