Running in My Own Shit

Writing a post means that I am not currently playing the "I killed myself" game and have chosen the other fun pastime of running in my own shit. It's somewhat like running in sand and is different only because it is NOT a good workout and you literally go nowhere. I like my use of literally there - as if anyone would literally run in their own shit to begin with, let alone discover they didn't get anywhere.

I should be pretending to be dead because my present engagement with life is rather weird in a "that's stupid" kind of way. I'm wanting to satisfy an itch? Or I can feel the beginning of something good on the horizon? Or I've imagined myself into a tizzy of possibility that never actually existed?

I'm not sure but I think it's one of those, perhaps the latter. I am an epiphany about to blossom. It's like chasing an orgasm -  exhausting.

I'm sad for some reason, as if I missed an opportunity... like I fucked myself over by not writing, sculpting, or other. I'm quietly kicking myself in the ass, no... wait, that's too kind:  beating the shit out of myself and loving it.

Fuck, I don't know. Time to get up and die - again.