It’s a beautiful day, Shiva. What are we supposed to do with a beautiful day? That just makes it worse, doesn’t it? We should be sailing or something. Or having lunch with our friends. Or taking a walk.
We are talking a walk.
It’s a work break. Talking about work. About how we should work harder. We should be being romantic with someone … Taking the air with our lover or something …
It’s just the usual self-sabotage, isn’t it. Doesn’t it get boring, being ourselves? God, is this really what life us?
At least we get to complain about life. At least we get to kvetch philosophically about the terms and conditions of life.
Is kvetching about life, life?
It’s been said so many times. It’s been done so many times. When does it just stop, anyway? When can you stop typing. When is enough actually enough.
All the pages I’ve already violated. All the writing I can’t undo. Haven’t I already made enough mess? Why couldn’t someone have told me, You’re no good at this. Why couldn’t I have told yourself?
I thought I had potential, or something. I thought I might improve, or something. And now there’s nothing we can do. No way we can escape. Except destruction. Self destruction. Except killing ourselves, so we wouldn’t have to face it anymore. The humiliations visited upon us. That we visit upon ourselves.
Suicide … maybe … but we’d botch that up, too.
Why did no one tell me I had no potential? Self belief should be crushed. We should know our place – really know it. It would save us from so much. We should know our own idiocy. Actually KNOW it. Get a face tat, written in backwards writing on your forehead. YOU’RE STUPID. Just to remind you.
I need a lobotomy. I identify as something without any self-consciousness. A stone. I’d lie to be a stone. Just lying there. Thinking of nothing. Not even not even thinking, or not yet thinking.
Work in Progress 