musing

so, writing is no longer the bowel movement it once was, or i'm very constipated. I don't know why i've stopped. writing has always been my benzodiazapine. the little thing that keeps off the demon of my anxiety, or at least makes it productive.

i think that i've been feeling as if all my feelings were dross and silly to express. very much like bad teen-age poetry. however, i seem to want to note that refusing to put what i'm feeling onto paper simply because some facist quality control department in my head doesn't consider it good art is pandering to an imagined audience. writing was supposed to be for me. i must remember that.

so, the truth is i feel lonely. further, i see no clear hope that this state of being is escapable through anything but an atrophy to it. isnt' anything else co-dependance? though co-dependance seems to be the nature and essence of love.

therin lies the problem, perhaps. it all boils down to my own insecurity. summation: it is not an atrophy to lonliness that is required but a feeling of healthy self-sufficience. in that state a love based on mutual respect and cooperation can be achieved.

buck up son.