Misanthrope

I'm finding it more and more difficult to not regret any word I write.  I keep feeling afterwards that the .75 millisecond anyone devotes to thoughtful reflection really means that nobody is able to get past their own internal shriek to hear much of anyone else's, and that perhaps it is easier to quite simply say nothing at all.

Of course it is.  I decided for a full 24 hours after The Monthly rejected the thing I'd worked on for months that I don't have the requisite skin to do this.  But then I do have the heart, and so 24 hours later I'm back on sending it out somewhere else.  What a fuckwit.  If I could work out something else I want to do I would do that instead and learn to forget what feels like vocation.

The world doesn't give a fuck about vocation.  Its dead eyes say that vocation is a childish concept for those who haven't yet learned the true way of things, but perhaps they just don't understand how you can float on a ball knowing it will one day die as your bones will turn to dust and that doesn't mean you can't try to tell the most beautiful stories possible of your shimmying on through.

And then in the shower - where else? The shower is a haven from this stupid world of beepery - an idea comes, and I desire to wrangle it and see where I can go with it. But who is there to play with that will pay?  Who wishes to engage when to do so requires an ability to not only engage with Not Me, to thoughtfully enter into another's world while being careful not to step on their floor-strewn stuff, pull down their half-hanging curtains, poke your finger to deep in their complexes, but to do so being mindful of the dwindled finances, the need for every word to soar high enough to draw the eyeballs, the ADHD-riddled eyeballs of the digital reader.

What the hell am I doing here?  Perhaps I don't belong here.  Maybe I don't have what it takes.

I don't much trust people no more.

The world's a little too full of thinking that emptiness is empty, and way terrified by the belief that fullness is only contained in the forward thrust to be much good for the kind of discussion I'm starving for. Too many zombie people keep believing this stupid story.

Still, amongst the rubble of the rabble there are still thoughtful souls afoot, and I'm gratified that some of those diamond souls even read here, and that I share my bed with one.

For all that though, I'm fucking sick of this story.  Its narrative is wholly unsatisfying.