Usually when I am in the mood to combine blood and ink into a parable of past transgressions, I make a mask. I make a character that thinks my thoughts, but is not me. Right now I am too lazy to write. This is a journal session, which I hate to do because it's not fun. It's life, it's black and white and it is really boring.
While grinding my coffee, I was thinking about a strange phantom emotional limb to mourn. The limb of the insincere friend. The shiny background to a life of parties. One more person to ash in the guacamole or pilfer the refreshing taste of confessional headache. As one ages in a proper and dignified fashion, these people become fewer and fewer in the aperture of a life well intentioned. These days, when down, people who actually care about you give you carte blanche to mope or purge the blackness of concentrated, personalized villainy. Instead of worrying about boring someone, I worry that they worry about my tendency to say things like "oh, don't worry about me killing myself. That is a lot of work, a lot of recuperation and given the state of my life I can't plan a day, much less a death." I havent even written that great book of pointless tired venom yet. And we all know it will go up in consumptive value once we see the author couldn't wear a glitterball tux with their tranny date or couldn't cope with the idea that this it.
The coffee is done and the room is dark. These books beckon me into their insular reprieves from mundane hurts and trivial desire.
Welcome back.
