How did you get to be so sad? Oh. I know. It’s not so easy, once you’ve gotten used to it. To have become the shadow of yourself. To be cast across the floor while you stand. That is the essence of what I mean, here. My writing is indulgent. It makes me sick. To no end. And I cannot seem to do anything with it the way I once felt I could. I cannot seem to feel about it the way I once did when I’d read it back. I am dramatic, overly. Even now, I am moaning. I cannot get away. But there is a light in the essence of the slow. The seeming freeze that takes hold in the wake of the world ending upright. I don’t know. Sometimes I just have to let my mind lose hold a little. Spout some nonsense so I can feel like I’ve done something. I just want to create something, and be proud of it. Sometimes, I think. That is all I want. I am not the most consistent. I don’t really read. I could do much better with doing a little more of that and a little less probably of writing about how I can’t write. I may just be actualizing all these fears. What I mean to escape keeps confronting me. And I do nothing to service my own ability to face. I’m so sick of it. I want to do something real. I want to make something. The work as a being of its own. I’m so sick of being in my head about who I am. I’m so sick of caring so much what other people think. I’m sick and tired. The expression. I’m sick and tired.