the drafts are endless because I just can’t get it right…
You’d think I had more to fucking say over the past swell of time…and I certainly do–in spurts, small jetties of words that come rushing out and then I realize…what I have to say is not well encompassed with just words lately–oh I’ve got drafts, so many drafts– dozens of half-saved musings hidden behind these screens. There’s this fresh horror that the good guys once again aren’t winning and I feel totally fucking paralyzed by it. I think part of my non movement is based in this idea that people are just very fucking unaware and really….why would I burden myself with the monuments of worry when everyone else seems to be rolling right along.
I have fifteen half written stories in my head about shit I need to do and part of my paralysis there has and always will be–once I do what I said I would…will that be the end of it all? Like I can change my own future by avoiding mark posts to progress, removing anything too terribly memorable about myself because…
Because I really must be an idiot…
I have been trying to figure out a way to make a place away from the place that many of us sit inside, terrified and fucking incredulous, for lack of a better world…what the fuck have we done is something I mutter daily…but a place to play, a place to not dwell…hell, the only thing lately that doesn’t make me hate my fellow Americans is America’s Got Talent, and even as I know these words may one day be picked apart and I might have my own life threatened by the musings of my own wonderment–there is so little to love about so many of my fellow countrymen–I mean lately I have felt compelled to hide out or run–there’s not much in between to this sinking uncomfortable feeling–but the means to escape aren’t easy to achieve so there is that…there’s a certain level of anchoring I cannot escape just for that alone. There’s ways and methods and certainly a better working ideology in a place that probably doesn’t exist but in my own mind—and I wish I could create it, but ideas are hard to paint in a way everyone can appreciate and translate them…so I suppose I better find a better way…a way to get us away.
I feel like I should divide my writings into categorical things–here I document me, there I document what I see even just sociologically, and the other place the wrongs and gripes as they were…
We’re heading towards a fully automated existence with two companies likely controlling everything and knowing most things about you. We’re still at the precipice of certain anonymity, but these protections seem to be stripped away with every passing year. Right now we still have clerks in our grocery stores and people cooking our food–but as we simplify and streamline–our autonomous facets will be washed away to be a part of the herd…
Right now there are certain companies set up to manage your online details after you die, but this will likely be a business that will grow and develop and hopefully one day be used for good…but for now it will be used primarily to make money, because that is all we have been able to figure out in terms of purpose…make as much money as you can in *almost* any way you can.
And this part of humanity is expressly what makes me hate Americans. We are certainly not number one in any measurable value I guess except obesity, percentage of our population incarcerated, and debt…whatever measure of success those are–they are certainly not ones I am comfortable embracing so I am trying to find the spaces of light in the American experience, namely my own I suppose, while looking around. I am a failed American in many ways because I haven’t been able to pick myself by the bootstraps and talk myself out of my experience exactly…I’ve tried, oh so many times…but it takes more than words and my bad luck to fix anything.
I wish I was a pariah of strength, someone you could all look up to–at my funeral there’s no way anyone is going to say…she, she never complained about the hand she was dealt…because that would be a fucking lie obviously and I don’t know anyone like that really–so no, that’s not my story-I’m pissed, sure, but I certainly won’t let that define me…but sometimes, honestly? I’ve felt my life, or rather, experience…has generally existed largely to remind you of what you do have while I fucking struggle and drown trying to have any. fucking. thing.
