I like to start most of my paragraphs with, "So."
I don't know why, I just do. But I corrected myslef this time. Went for the different point of attack. Anyway, I am the murky pond. No streams or rivulets stirring my surface, no. I am the foul smelling, decrepid, stagnant pool. I waste.
By waste, I do not mean throw away. Although that does describe what I am right now. I serve the god of inaction. I dont know how I came to be his servant, but once you are there, well... by the very nature of inactivity you will never find a way out. At least it will always appear that way, at first.
So... - there it is, my delusion, my soliquoly into a semblance of coherency, but its not - As I waste, I continue to breathe. And as I breathe I contemplate. And before I continue to wax poetic, let me wane gilded edges and pretty toungue.
All these projects, that I have great ideas for - yeah, i'm not unique in this matter - waste. Those are my words, I have made them my own.
The threads that I weave, always started, but also loose ends. I have tied myself to everything that surrounds me, anchoring the other end to nothing, alluding to myself that since one end is free I am not tied down. I lie to myself about this.
I leave no legacy. I have no creations that I have set free. Just ideas bundled up in sarcasm to pretend to me that I have left something behind. I act as if I'm on my death bed with nothing left to grow.
When was the last time I worked? Does work even matter anymore? Why am I not providing for myself?
I fluctuate between different weights as my body attempts to adjust to my dementia. Or is it skizophrenia? One is too much dopamine, the other, not enough. Some days I can see the bones in my hands. Others, my fat fingers rub at my face as if to remind me that I still have a face.
For days on end I sit in front of different monitors; computer, television, windows... And I waste. And stagnate.
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