A crow calls, another crow replies, the afternoon continues unabated. The ordinary continues in order, minus a little smoke and ash. Yesterday’s orange skies are once again poor air quality hazy instead of doomsday movie changed. I circled through my usual suspects as flecks of ash covered everything, hobbling through the daily maze of dog and cat, checking my typical list. I’m spectacularly sad, ordinarily sore, and soup to nuts a bore. There’s nothing much to me outside the context clues, wrong place, wrong time and all these unpaid dues. Taking up too much time, talking only to myself.
There’s an urgency that is only extant inside me. All the real world markers and measures have all gone quiet, everyone else has moved swimmingly and seamlessly along, even the myths I harbor in my stupid selfish heart have dwindled into just more dumb stuff I carry. All these dead conversations, words that may as well be dialogue from the Rockford Files for how much it means to anyone other than me, running around my head and running down my heart. The ache has been especially pervasive lately, knowing that when the inferno comes our way we are likely fuel, knowing that any enmity aimed my way has got the drop on me. Dead bang.
It’s all old habits. I don’t know that there’s any new I could do. The momentum of spiraling constantly downward, walking in the shoes of some once was ghost, the joy crushed out of my mortal husk has more than done for me. The weight of all this suicidal ideation and guilt over my worthlessness has gotten me in deep. No news, but being nothing but shit and trouble to everyone you interact with wears you the fuck out. Now I feel like writing a letter that is both unwelcome and way too late. Another habit I need to let go— the belief that exposition will help. That writing it out does anything besides jacking a round into the chamber. That anything is left for me but to swing.
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