Life changes. The world turns. Who I am today is a shadow of the person I was a month ago. Two months ago. A year ago.
I haven't posted because I've been in limbo. My reality is askew; I'm bored, delusional and drowning. In what? Perhaps a vat of my own cold, stagnant saliva. Is this a coma or is life really all just a dream?
If you're questioning my current success, that's just a foregone conclusion. Of course I'm just as merrily thriving as before. Better, actually. How that remains to be the case is beyond me. Of course I'm brilliant, of course of course! But since when has that had anything to do with success? I can tell you right now; success is not a matter of intelligence but of dogged persistence--motivation. If you can propel your fat ass into a mere 90% of the opportunities in your path I guarantee you at least a modicum of glory.
So what's my problem? As I fiddle with the Sharpie in my mouth, twisting and scraping it against my canines, I ponder my own question. What is my problem? Besides the overabundance of squint-eyed lemon-crackers working as baggers in my local grocery store or the reemergence of niggerisms in everyday Caucasian English, I can't imagine what could be bothering me. Maybe it's just the weather.
But the thing is, ladies and gentlepaths, I've always found the biting winds and piercing rains of winter to be a turn on-- one of many. That's right, if you happen to be curious they also include candle-lit dinners, basketweaving and long slices across tender flesh (preferably delivered with the teasing edge of a braided whip). However, I digress.
Why is the night denying our kinship? Why has the moon silenced its nightly call? We used to be such blushing lovers, the Moon and I. Nothing but the brash emergence of sunlight or the promise of a copper-tinted fiesta could part us. But it has. Who am I now?
I'll admit, I feel a bit lost. Not myself. A stranger in a strange mind. Two and two never quite equals four for a sociopath, but we sure can be damned convincing it's five. Morphing people into my reality is half of my survival. Yet the further I spiral into this rabbit hole of self-delusion the more I have to question if my reality really is in my control at all.
Some people sob at the softest mention of cancer within. All I can say is there is a much more sinister disease burbling in this demonic blood of mine. Boredom; perhaps a hybrid virus of Holy Water and Jew Blood, is the most horrific plight I can imagine. And it afflicts me. Rotting my eyeballs inside, then out. Setting my skin on fire- then dousing it with ice before I can be dazzled by macabre sparks.
Boredom is the Devil and I am fucking possessed.
My complete lack of motivation has always been staggering. Here I sit, posting for the first time in much too long. Meanwhile, my life speeds off without me. Work piles up unmolested. A hundred things need doing and none of them are being done. But alas, Boredom has adhered itself and is here to stay.
By now this pen of mine is ragged and pulpy-- another victim of passive compulsions. I continue to chew it, easily ignoring its silent cries for help, and consider how I'll end this foray into writing something while really writing nothing. With a joke? With a quote? A word of wisdom or recipe for Spiced Yolk?
It's hard to write from behind a mask when it's begun clinging to your skin. I can't show you what's beneath when I can't pry the damn thing off. Hence, my lack of posting. Hence, my lacking sanity. Hence hence hence, the End. Not of me, but of this babbling, rambling, rant.