Croaking, I whisper sour-nothings.

Sometimes I wonder: Why the fuck do I bother with this ritual of writing? It’s certainly arrogant, assuming people want to hear your voice.  Like you have some unique and digestible True way of thinking. Like you’re some fucking existential supplement: 2 a day keeps the suicide at bay. And no, that’s not a warning sign or some shit. People freak out when they read the word suicide. As if the dirty word summons latent feelings in down-on-their-luck salt-of-the-earth folks. Not gonna happen.  Even if it did, someone that volatile was delivered DOA to the cruel bitch Nature herself.  Hesse is whispering Steppenwolf in my head on repeat, propping up with a shadowy pillar the idea of the suicide. It’s really the same anxiety as Dostoyevsky and DFW manifested as the anxious man: the Great Anticipator.  It’s beautifully written though.  Not in a flowery, sweet sense like with Arundhati Roy ( You should really read her. I want to mimic her written voice with the highest sincerity available) but with the determination of a gentleman. I couldn’t write like him but I get Harry’s cold stance towards the future.  The anxious one fears being seen but dreads being passed over: Ignored, non-chosen, judged-and-found-ehh, etc.  Harry, like me, has a great aversion towards synthesis but cries for analysis like a teat.  It is a warm comfort to exert a measure of control over the sensory sea rushing around the world and happening to you: dam the  flow into manageable, babe/brook-s.  Synthesis is an affront to Existenz and a stupidly assured vanity. You know not of that which is not. There is a sincerity in creation that can’t be masked behind humor or cynicism. The problem with sincerity is that it is a modifier by nature; a catalyst.  You can present yourself to the chopping block and be spared or devastated, all in the name of sincerity.  That’s why I’ll just continue to hide behind the voices of past greats, imitating them to the best of my ability like a smile-stuck child, lapping at the stories of men he can respect but couldn’t explain why except to say ” _____, Oh I love him. He,1,2,3,4,5 uh, I guess he just gets me”.  ‘Cause who the fuck wants to hear the voice of some kid from a  sadly comfortable life wax poetic about growing up too slowly?  Nobody, that’s who: My kinda people.  So count me in.  At least I’ll get a conversation  with myself, which I should start charging for, because it’s a steal.


Don’t remember me but dontchu fucking forget me,




  1. {They wouldn’t know that story. They don’t even know Robert}
  2. {How can I even phrase that without a 30 minute sub-discussion giving context}
  3. {Oh shit, isn’t s/he religious? I wanna say Jewish. Not even bringing that up}
  4. {I’m not about to explain myself and have that look flipped back at me}
  5. {Can’t we skip this bullshit cliff-note dissertation and accept on the weakest of faiths ( see: supported by anecdotal evidence) that I understand what color your taste pallet is?}

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