Perhaps the end to this purgatorial hallucination would return me to the flat nauseating terror of having your actions matter.
Maybe it would be easier to determine what becomes good writing or bad. What gives me a headache doesn’t necessarily signify that it’s awful. Does my loathing place it under a label? What spectrum should be solely concerned with one dimension?
If I could occupy myself with quotidian stresses perhaps I could shed this purposeless guilt, this emptiness, this repetition. The simmering procrastination that stays my hand; I do not act, for fear of caring. I wish I could crawl from my casings, fungal and flaky and familiar, and be new and raw and painful.
I wish I could declare something, take a stand, ache, freeze in air that rips at every exposed crevice. I want so desperately to purge myself of this hideous ennui, to mean something, to make progress. I want to stop forward, be strange, hold that glorious feeling of wind trembling down a flattened curtain of shimmering summer leaves whose shapes plate, scales, a phalanx, arching downward. How could it be ineffable when I can write it and you can know, and yet each time I read it I skim, evade, picking up only a hint of meaning. I think it good, I judge. But I experience nothing of import.
What injustice have I done myself by accepting a lower echelon than that which I deserve? I make a rule of overestimating the world and underestimating myself. It is important to anticipate excess from those around you and raise your own expectations, while promising yourself that you are neither capable, nor adept.
Sometimes I wish I could become mute, an aphasiac, so my thoughts could mean more—to myself. It doesn’t matter what others think of me, I’ve never much cared—but if I could appreciate myself, pathetic though I am, perhaps I couldn’t constantly second-guess every thing I do.