Every night’s another death, that’s why sometimes I’m so reticent to sleep, having left lessons unlearnt and a days work unaccomplished. It’s like trying to build a building using the surrealist writing game, every incarnation absorbed and only the folded remnants to work with. I wonder about each soul that takes to the task, such variegated people sitting in a single skin and purpose put to rest only to be picked at like a mid-seam stitch. I wonder every day if the me I’ll be will accomplish what I wanted when his time comes, who will that be?
My teeth hurt. I can feel myself dying. I wonder if it’s scurvy but know it’s not, just general malnutrition and a lazy malaise. I should do less nothing and more something, probably, that’s generally been the problem preached to me. I can feel the constriction in my lungs, though, vile little nodules growing rot and bile, creeping up to close my throat, at the back where the nasal sewers deposit themselves. I feel chalky and brittle, a set of crumbling functions in a bad routine. I don’t believe this will last but don’t know how to change it.
You know how when someone you love, someone you’ve shared everything with and you trust and respect and have complete faith in but also enjoy that passive acceptance bred out of total familiarity, when someone like that says I love you and you say I love you back in a totally rote fashion, not disingenuous but so automated through fidelity that it becomes an ignorable key structure in your day to day? You know that feeling? That voice tells me I deserve to die and I always say, of course I do, in a totally rote fashion, of course.