My body will not accept this amount of self-consciousness. It's a retraction of the soul, it's embarrassment. Proper grammar is a sign of taking myself too seriously, trying to shove myself into the writer box when all I want to do is express frustration. I don't have to. I can dash off a string of lightly punctuated blocks of words perfectly well. Maybe it's the bad memories of not being able to stop. Too much formlessness is a mudslide chasing me down a spiral. It's not pretty.
This style doesn't abet my worst instincts, but it feels less genuine. I'm not well-balanced enough right now to speak with proper sentences internally. There are horrible aspects of being mortal. It's horribly awkward.
I'm drifting, looking for grounding. How was my day1? Focus on negatives: dirty degrading marks on mind-film, cluttered yet without substance, in a form that erases experience. It's so easy to get worked into worried dissociation. I think I've improved my will a little. The problems don't go away if I ignore them. Or if I lecture myself about them as guilt ointment, not even intending to address them physically. Over time, anxious thoughts and self-flagellation become desktop shortcuts. Meaningless dread is just oily and disgusting.
Now that a healthy dose of somehow meaningful bullshit has scared off the normies, it's time to be specific. Well, maybe it's still too understandable. That's the big rational objective of communication, right? Social constructs and cultural signposts yadda yadda whatever. I'm lazy, and the schematics in my head are shrugging. Future me will think this is all loser shit, so who cares? I've already spent enough words on insecure self-justifications.
I'm intimidated by a lot, and I want to exert that pressure on those weaker than me. I don't want to think I have a choice in the matter, because having choices is immoral. Personally, I like the idea of them, but it's a different story when I'm face to face with one. It's a lot of shit to put on one stupid nothingfucker. Let it be. Let the trolley kill them all. I didn't see anything. In fact, I might just stab forks into my eyes as an alibi. I was caught off guard; even now, I don't know what to think about powersaws, man.
The best life lubricant is expression. I have no agency without it. Am I a worse and more immature person than I come off as? Depends on the signals I send. The colour, the shape, the message. The place where I don't need to think about them is God, where action is truly unnecessary. It's not here, and I don't see it changing anytime soon. Where's the emanation? I'm foolhardy to itch for it. Death is in the same category, I guess. Suicide is not the answer though. It's not an answer at all. More like a panic button.
Other heavy things happen to other people, and I don't know how to care. Do I not want to? Do they have to look me in the eye directly, bore through my insides to the very core? What if I'm totally selfish and evil? Will they think I'm selfish and evil? I hope not. But they would need to know; it's important.
There's a time to let go, when the trail goes somewhere else less manageable. There's a kernel of purpose in doing so, but not much more. It's a good thing I don't need much. Too much of it is a burden. Or perhaps it's good for me, and my fear of it kills the possibilities. Predestination breeds desperation breeds motivation breeds profit? I don't know where this is going. I'll leave it for now!
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Is time discrete or continuous? I'm not feeling it either way.
