Not at artis. At Guerilla. This is distracting from not writing. The best I can do. Best, defeatist, defeated, breath. Something to drink. If I do this for attention...
Later, at Strada:
I am overcome by a pointing deep pushing hard OH NO! This is not good, I say. This is most definitely not good. I am terribly fearful for my life, for my death, for the lack of time that i have to fail at all the things I am a failure at already. Haha, how ridiculous, that my past is of failure, my condition is of failure, my aspirations are of failure, and my future is of failure. Haha. I'm not laughing, they are.
There is something freeinng about hitting paragraph: New! when paragraph Old feels done (enough). There is something. There is enough. No, not enough. What is that something. Is it the feeling of having finished something, of not being a failure at the simple task of doing? Yes. Is it the feeling of freedom, of starting anew, of putting the inevitable failure that the previous paragraph was behind me, behind me, behind me? Yes. Does the feeling that pulls down always and points deep and pushes hard, does this feeling go away at the start of a new failure? No. I have failed before I have started. That is what this feeling tells me. Sure, sure, new paragraph alllllll you want, friend. Try anew, try separate, try, try again, again, again. One of these times, you will try to start and succeed. This is what he thinks.
This is how he feels. He feels like concrete, like a sludge dragged out from the swamp and put on a pedastal, he feels like a green mold, growing on beautiful fruit, like a curse out from the bowl of water that God poured in those tiktoks, like a spell cast on the world, an eternal darkness, a dread of the inevitable silencing. He feels like a mute, like a tame, like a cripple, a defect. Horrible, don't worry, I know, but it's not me, remember that, this is him, and it's his time to shine, or rather, to cloud. I think I don't give him enough time in the sun, literally, because the swamp tastes much worse than the sun, and whenever he is here he puts a terrible taste in my mouth, and my stomach for that matter, a taste like carpet and bricks, like I have eaten the indigestible truth of my own inadequacy, the state that I am in tastes like bark and mulch, like the underbelly of a rotten, terrible, no good society. I taste like death.
Enough with the negativity. How much can I tolerate? Is it my job to tolerate, or my duty, my honor, my privilege. Everything outside of the center of my focus is blurry, and when I try to widen my gaze, I only look away, to a new place. I cannot see bigger because I need to focus on the task at matter, the disappearing white, the edge, the line, that always seems to be moving away from me.
I need to feel better. This is what I think, and why I feel so wrotten. Oh, the good ol' wrotten/wright duality. That makes me feel better. Is it profound, or funny? Thank goodness some part of me doesn't care. It's not the described quality that makes me feel better, it's the chuckle that precedes the inscription. This is important to remember. I feel better chuckling, meaning or not. Chuckle chuckle. That doesn't work. Oh wait, it did. Chuckle. Chuckle Montgomery. Yes. Decisively so.
Did Mr. Doubtfire go away, or did I escape him? He's gone, so I'm ending it here.
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