silenced

"I'll Be Love's Suicide" by Tiny Dancer — Flickr


I'm fine. Really. I'm fine. I just have nothing to say. Nothing to say anymore. I talk and it drops down into the void. Seems pointless.

I talk about nothing now. Nothing important. So I have nothing to write. Nothing worth recording. Nothing worth putting out there. I'm not putting out.

There's really little more loathsome than people writing about their inability to write. Well... maybe complaining about it. That's more loathsome.

I'm living. I'm doing. I'm here. That's about it. Nothing more. I'm not filled with anything. Not even rage. Oh, rage might do me well right now. Something at least.

I simply am. There is nothing exciting about that.

I don't want to go into a teenage spiral caving beneath the unbearable burden of insignificance. But...

What the fuck?

We work. We play. We eat. We work. We eat. We sleep. We wake. We live. We die. Fuck man!

Are we really supposed to watch this much tv?