Oh chewed-gum fixed to pavement and blackened by the soles of feet, how does it feel to be you? Here, stuck too, I’m trying to wrangle the feeling into words. Would you say it’s a distasteful state with a sad face? I might be more elevated than you, probably plastered under the desk of some high-schooler. I cannot do enough that is sustainable. The things that fulfill me and give me wings, I excuse myself from. Why? Because I have been doing them for so long I have taken for granted their positive power on my psychology? Because I have been doing them for so long I have gotten bored? I wanted to focus on shiny new things. So bright they were I happily let myself become blinded to my old friends. 

In a particular sense I’m a patrol officer in a country called lOser-dOm––a most welcoming place that forces citizenship on all visitors. “Ah the venting of a depressed person,” you say to yourself. But no, Friend, it isn’t as simple as that. I can’t even say that I’m depressed. More like I am dangling in space: not doing, not thinking, not daring, not caring enough to act, not writing—even journaling (and I must write), not reading (which makes a mush of intellect), and not creating (barrenbarrenbarren). In a sense I am a zombie mooing up and down a hallway of artificial stimulation. . . MOOo.

So today I unsubscribe from almost all my YouTube channels because I have no self-discipline! I keep telling you I’m addicted to that platform! I’m not joking. It is a serious issue I’m having here but no one takes me seriously. And how can I blame you when I don’t take this serious issue seriously myself—yes, serious has to be repeated this many times. But I must, you see, look the issue in the eye unless I want to “upgrade” to a bigger zombie than I already am. I just can’t keep on living like a distasteful thing with a sad face. So here goes the umpteenth attempt to sober-up. Wish me luck . . .

Xx
JAO