I am interior to it: betwixt the chaos; the plush and jawboned surfaces, the people, seams, codes, architecture entangled in composition, proportions of propped pompous rhymes and rhythm: discord and hushed hues, awash with stretched watercolour, totalling the echoes of complaints, questions and processes:

At some point your brain chooses, either you walk that line to continue or you lie down and die. – What is the purpose of human existence? It is apparent that I am at a point of divergence. Not on whether to live or to die, that’s simple,  – we all die, it’s a matter of when.  I cannot make anyone else understand if I do not understand it fully myself, understand that I feel everything, paradoxically, that I feel nothing, or dilute.  I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand or know myself, nor will anyone else. – This fault is my own, accumulation of the past, the present, the future. The denial of all three perhaps. – The unease, the tension, anxiety, stress, worry, fear, obsession, guilt, regret, I’m sure there is more. (Too much past coupled with too much time travel; inadequate in explanation, because I don’t fully understand myself.)– Then neither does anyone else. – It’s not easy as making a difference in a choice, or priority. “Make getting well your job” well, I have fucking tried for a lifetime so it seems, uh arduous, it’s exhausting just being… you know.  So.. ugh. It’s fine. It’s difficult to see past things, even when they are transparent at times, you know.   Everyone needs.. Something, space, place, time, concepts, purpose.. Something.. I don’t know what exactly that is only that it shouldn’t be interior to another person.

October seems to be all encompassing; you deceive my brainwaves. Proportional – tidal, wet heavy clothing sticking to skin; I carry you around like an assemblage of lint sheathed in my pocket.  Your wounds remember like words briefly, empty. You have that capacity to mark, to hurt people. I am alone in almost all daily actions, distress, contemplation, confusion, nightmares, and despondency.

I wonder briefly, at times what you feel.  Anything? A  glimpse of you,  rather than me? Like examining the portraits/paintings. Stills. Mmm..  don’t think so, or maybe. Mm.. no.. eh. ???

Take a breath in escapism; you are after all perpetually running, and old and grey. I seem to be living in separate realities/universes and have no idea where it is that I belong, who I am, if I’m actually alive or dead.
We are all a series of moments, syphers, considerations…  strung together I guess.

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