11/05/2024QuarterMk_KS_IOK1322//09:50PM_EST
Will I at some point think of who I am now as just some someone
The sun used to set over to, the way I do to that guy the moon used to rise to
Bare and tense and thinking and thinking and thinking
Always thinking of someone’s eyes watching from the corners of his skull
- As He still does now -
And held by that black line, blinking back at me, awaiting the next few lines
Fancy words to paste onto myself and hide the things I don’t want both of us to see
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I don’t know how to write - why do I do the things I do? What makes the choices behind these words calloused and shelled. I pause. I pause a lot when I write. Thinking of the next few words. I’m trying to think of what I think of. Trying to bring that pause onto screen. To you it can seem like one continuous writing. But an average of 3 minutes clawed that gap between sentences, and sometimes words. If I wrote this with a space for every second I don’t write, I’d end up with a piece of jigsaw I broken and not jigsaw;…………… but something else. The honor system is at play here, timing myself defeats the point. Maybe 5 or 3 pauses per second.
I think I’d like to give myself a 5 Mississippi window where I can think of the next few words. I’d end up being pretty incoherent if I can’t think at all. The problem is too much thinking. Of being aware of thinking. Thinking of thinking of thinking. In and around the world. I don’t know. Just had to say something. In and around something. I have a habit of rereading what I just read. And having a slight (maybe more than slight) superiority complex about how good it is, only hidden underneath this intense self-loathing I show to balance the scale. Or maybe I think that way cause I hate myself that much that I think I’d do something so fucked and narcissistic like that. I also read to make sure I get out what I’m really trying to say. Just trying not to delete stuff I’ve written out right now just to make sure I don’t get stuck.
That happens a lot. Getting stuck. Stuck by over thinking. Because I’d rather stop and imagine what it could be like than finish the work, nose to the grinder, move against resistance, and carry the entire fucking world on that head. Easier thought than done. How does this even end?
I just realized