Sep. 6th, 2017

monk222: (Effulgent Days)
I woke up at four. At least the cats were happy: I got to feed them more regularly. But I couldn't fall asleep for my afternoon nap, and this is after putting in a hard morning of lawn work.

Though, I did go to bed at about 10:30 last night. I was so dead tired. I did lawn work last evening too, and that was after a five o'clock morning.

I don't know. My biorhythms are all fucked up. And you know how important it is for me to live by routines, and how deadly important sleep is to me.

And, yeah, I think I might loosen up on my blog. For a while, I have been on a more literary-poetic stride, or so I fancy. I haven't been just posting anything, leaving out the most basic and repetitive elements of my humdrum life. I was even trying to lay off the weather reports.

But now I kind of feel like I am in a blurty mood. It has been a long time. In my fifties, I figured that sort of impulse had burned out. I saw it as mostly an urge to show off, a desperate bid for attention, and what is the point of that in your fifties, especially when you no longer have any readers anyway? True, it almost worked for me once, but that must have been my last chance in life, and, as always, I wiped out and hurt myself. At least it was the best ride of my life. I came so close to making friends and even having a lover. I really do feel like I almost rode that wave, even if I am kidding myself about that.

I am not sure where this mood is taking me. Maybe it's a short-lived impulse. I have felt the stirrings of a blurty mood now and again for a while, but it was always easy to ignore. I still don't want to be overly banal and repetitive. I don't always want to be talking about what I am eating or watching on TV or what I am wanking to, nor to record every trivial thought that coalesces into a phrase in my vacuous mind. But, really, what else is there?

Who am I kidding, right? I am a broken vinyl record. I haven't had an original thought in thirty years. More writing means more dull droning repetition. So pointless.

I guess I just continue to feel a peculiar fascination in seeing my thoughts on a page, and I do not want to wait until I feel like I might produce something a little artful or informative. I am not going to be the next Billy Collins, or the Next Anybody. I am just the perennial nobody with an attitude.

Maybe the interaction between me and the page is my substitute for real conversations with other people. Just picture me in a straitjacket drooling over myself in a corner and banging my head, gently but regularly like the ticking of a clock, against the padded wall, incoherently mumbling on and on about how nobody loves me, not even my mother, and wondering where it all went wrong, and why did my cat have to die.

And I wonder why no one wants to read me!

Maybe my giving in to the blurty mood is about my lack of sleep. I don't know. Let's just see where it goes. Well, I think we know where it ends up, where it always ends: Nowhereville, with a room at the Heartbreak Hotel at the end of Lonely Street. But we will see what route we take this time. Hey, it could be our last trip. Soak in the sights, enjoy the breeze, try to remember the little joys we enjoyed, the sweet dreams we dreamed, the desires that died in their own fire.

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monk222

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