January 10th, 2007
Smeared
Things are just in a jumble. The last six weeks have been nothing but numb, racing by in a powdered-tea blur. The holiday was not, and in the end all I vaguely recall is twenty-some hours of walking through Kyoto and a good New Year’s Day meal. I can’t help but feel like I just dumped something of myself into a meat grinder and shunted the output to the waste bin.
I’m not sure what I should be doing, or what I’m getting out of all this, but the only thing that’s certain is me getting older. Older, time is passing, and I have nothing to show for it other than a bank account about half the size it was forty-five days ago. I wish this was empirical, that the results were crystal clear and binary. Do A, B happens. Do C, B doesn’t happen, with the added benefit of D.
How can my spirit be so muffled? I had spellbinding direction and vision just four years ago, and then I fell off the mountain, and started a slide into a muddy ditch, within which I’m now wandering around in circles. Even my ennui is vague. Nothing makes sense at all, everything I do is only managed through routine. There is not a single inspired thought in my mind.
What the hell am I talking about?
