For the last six months I’ve felt very frustrated.
For the last three, I’ve felt actively embittered.
The most holy day of the year for me, the winter solstice, is coming soon, and the query of that day, as it is evolving, seems to be boy: ain’t you sick of wallowing in that shit yet?
They answer is trending toward: yeahfuck, I fuckin’ guess.
It’s attractive, to keep playing the role of the man twisted into knots by never having been cared for well. But not …
endlessly attractive.
I wrote this whole thing about the dissonance
between the very early Christmases when I was apparently honestly cherished and bright
and the years that came hot on Santa’s heels when all that shattered into broken glass in the gutters which
I came to know as my only natural and perhaps even rightful Home.
But I’m not going to publish it, because that is … collaboration
with the wallowing. (How can you miss me, if I won’t get the hell out of the Way?)
Which I am sick to fuckin’ death of, and How can I … ever change things that I feel?
You can go your own way.