I once said, my hell is just me, letting people down. Dissapointing people all day all night, in hot weather.
Sadly, this is a vison I live inside my head almost as often on this side of eternity. Maybe Freud would tell me I have a mother complex rather than a complex mother, and explain how I could never live up to her.
I think rather for me, it was my father. My mother was easy. She loved me unconditionally, and despite an apparent mental illness I wasn;t aware of, my memory of her was of love and happiness. Oddl, becaue of this, I did not reatin any specifics. I can not recall any real memories of my mother, from birth to death. I remember a few stories I’ve retold, but I can not viusally retrieve any memories of Mom and I.
pause. My memoru issues should not hijjack this writing. It was a visid try. I know memories exist, but I never saved them with hashtags so they can’t be retiried because I have no ketwords or memories to cling to.
THoughts make me tired, and so I wander away down a different stream of thought.
None come. I’m stuck on a rock in my flow.
I have to choose my action, but neither stream has any contesxt.
must make my own story.
and I don;’t want to.
They’re always the same. I don’t share.
I think I’m progressing, and doing well. I convince myslf the football will be there THIS TIME.
I’ll kick it rioyally. THis will be the first day of the rest of my life.
I read that on facebook today and the original poster seemed to legitimately believe it was something new.
An infinite loop. EVerything old is new again. Except things the new Disney copywright laws fucked up for everyone.
pause. Pee break. When I am up, I will… ahahhaha… I’m explaining how I will rick mysf. I’ll do a line,
Ok. It’s decided. It is writtten.
I mean, why wait till I give in at 9.