3.13.17

the feeling is not emptiness. it is not a hollow heaviness which rests at the bottom of the stomach or the top of the groin like a pile of heated flesh diced and still wet with blood. the feeling is not weakness nor is it strength. the feeling is not fear, the feeling is not courage to face what’s unknown. the feeling is something in between the spaces of these feelings, above them yet between them, knowing one will always take the place of the other, knowing freedom and joy are things reserved for the theater of memory, the ghost-darkened room of the mind where images project themselves on the smooth surface of the skull and stay there as if burned into bone, cauterized, combined. what’s another day but another pain. what’s one word after another but the useless stuff of dreams emerging to die in the world, as a fish leaps out of water to twitch to death on shore.

Written at 12:57, midday, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, while feeling the strangest form of personal rejection and sadness I’ve ever felt. These feelings are baseless, yet they persist. Strange. I’m either depressed or I have to poop.