Day 13660

Well, when you put it like that, it doesn't seem that long.  Which, for me, begs the question, what was I thinking that made me see that my age in days seems positively small or early... or something.

I just couldn't come up with a title and was going for Sol 42 kinda sci fi feel. Suddenly, I'm perked up because 13 660 days seems like nothin. Forty-seven years apparently comes with a lot more stigma - that I am laying on thick while being in total denial that I am.

My body... hurts. I can't remember it hurting this much, this consistently in my thirties. And apparently, I'm still really young so it sucks to have this much discomfort - upon wakening.

I'm noticing that I'm doing that thing lately, where I never feel like I can get a full breath. Which means, I'm stressing out and not telling myself that I am. I'm watching my life from the sidelines because I can't believe that what's happening is not weird. But my body self seems to be okay with all. As if it knows the future of "it's gonna be fine" and I don't.

The people that live above me, the woman, when she's home, what the fuck is she doing? It sounds like she's arranging rocks, and then, oh I don't know, shredding small shrubs in a industrial blender? She's fucking loud.

Right, and her walking about the house: it seems to me that she walks about, from room to room, repeating to herself, single-mindedly, "I'm as heavy as an ox, I'm as heavy as an ox, I'm as heavy as..."

Luckily, she  travels a lot for work and is gone for long stretches of time. When she is gone, her husband-dude-guy is as quiet as mouse. It's like he's not even home. That must be why they got the Roomba, so that he would remember her and feel comforted by the noise. Fucking Roomba.

I remember what I wanted to write about: I'm sick of myself. Also, I'm sick of myself being sick of myself.  Enter Dissonance.

I want to write but I hate who I look like as a writer. I don't like how my words sound, they sound like I'm trying to be someone other than who I am and I can't seem to locate true north. OR... or, I'm not accepting who I am as a writer. I suppose my first exercise can be "accept yourself as the writer you are today."

I can't change those things if I don't get them out of me enough so that I can see the pieces and then rearrange them. I need to shut the fuck up.  All this languishing on what a douche bag I am is simply self indulgent. Write and re-write.

And every time I have a thought, I must acknowledge it as what it is, a thought, and return the goal of true north.

This morning, I opened a link from Bored Panda, some look at these every day photos that make you think twice accidental optical illusions post. I anticipated seeing 7-10 images but there was 17 pages of images, 5-7 images a page - a fucking forever of fucking cool, weird images - and I could not stop going to the next page EVEN THOUGH I WANTED TO STOP.  Just one more page I could hear my brain say.

It was like gum. The way I feel when gum is in my mouth and it demands I chew it.

It's like cigarettes when they're close to me, dancing about saying "smoke me, smoke me."

It's that feeling of doing things when I really, really don't want to do them.

These actions feel like little sandpaper razor blades cutting the skin above my heart. I can't stop cutting. And then I look up and am confronted with the house plants I refuse to water.

I am unhappy with my un-doing. Although, as far as the house plants are considered, perhaps I no longer want to have the responsibility of those - that's fair.

There is nothing else to be done but to get out my compass, find true north, and not be pulled from the path by thoughts (or stupid Bored Panda posts) that only offer blackholes of brain gum and cigarettes.

And bad feelings are often only negative thoughts masquerading as truth.