June 2nd

   So,
there's a lot of outlets to resort to.
Or maybe distractions.
From the little chunks of things that do not dissolve in the fluid of things,
the things, emotions and such, that are not just trampling every corner of
my present thought processes- I like how that word is pronounced- but also
they do not disappear for good.

   Music works, it switches on some neurotransmitters, turns you around somewhat. Talking to other people, browsing the Internet, reading a book, all distract very well.

   Rediscovering my love for writing on myself. "Inks are poisonous for your skin."
So are many other things, like chips and beer. I smoke cigarettes, and I have a little neat counterarguments of sorts if you want.

   'Hey, is the music from my earphones to loud?' How nice is it to ask that, and how preemptive, and how inherently annoying are all these courtesies? There my thoughts end. I'm a considerate person. 'Considerate' is a neutral word.

   And you check the time, and it's late enough, inconsiderately enough, the time has moved on pretty fast. What kind of an asshole reminder does the clock give. I was doing well for myself.

   "If people are lonely,"
Damn, how unmanageable that is,
"then much of love, relationships, infatuations are just distractions."

   And away with what distraction means, what real problems lay behind my back, away with
those things with the plucking of your guitar, slow motion of the drumsticks, your thoughts

Much of what I start to see or start to think are unstoppable,
self-reinforcing words and thoughts inside the cage of what is called me.
There's an occasional slap from outside of me that beneficially shakes things around, but, but, it doesn't seem helpful, it doesn't seem helpful.

   Hi, I buy into marvel floors, swimming pools, nice suits, well-lit lighting, carpeted floors and a bottle of wine and other things that people do when they have money left after eating McDonald's.

   "Spill the cup of water and just see what happens,"
Irresponsibility is such a great reassurance. I said, "I guess," before I said that. I am thankful that 'sometimes' and 'I guess' exist for me. Irresponsible qualifiers that do responsible things. I write now with its warming pat in the back. Or maybe more like a hug from behind.

   "I fell in love with the idea of you," and I don't think it's a bad thing at all. How else do you fall in love, anyway? I said, one, in the lack of a better term, and two, with the annoying carefulness that only smells of putrid vagueness, that "there's a tension," and whatnot. What does that even mean, I mean, you are, as Justin Timberlake put it, the best thing that you've never had. That idea, I also loved. "Being in the middle of it sucks though."

   "When you love, you look at the same thing" or in the same direction, or something. I never understood that, it's like rather than looking at each other, you are, similar, similar- "I think love for me is looking at each other." And if you look closely enough, you can opt to see yourself in the other person's eyes. 'I am a selfish, lonely person.' I type quicker than I think, fortunately, the keyboard does the thinking for me. I like that idea.

   I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind, and I hope, that you, don't mind. I text my mother good night, 1 AM here. I decided to indulge on a cup of tea that is going to keep me awake for no good reason. Just please let me go, chemicals, chemicals just let me go out. Every emotional upshift I feel, I quickly ascribe it to some neurotransmitters. Fuck them, and fuck them for letting me understand things that I wish I hadn't. Fuck me for knowing nothing but myelin sheaths.

   Chips crack in half, with my teeth in my mouth, and I flush it with a gulp of beer. So many things in my mouth. Be sneaky about it, barley drink. Be sneaky about it. Spending minutes and hours writing this, I wonder if a sleep will be a period, or will this be new paragraph or something, one-inch margins. Will this beer iron things out, or heat things up. I guess irons do both.

   'haha thanks. i dont want anyone to turn around for me though. too much responsibility. im doing pretty well with the nice beers i got. no need to sooth me. everyones one in a trillion for someone' 'stop pretending like youre a humble creature' 'what can i do if i am one?' "Just deal with me," I had said. Just how ironic are the physical distances, coexistences, unbridgeable mental gulfs? Irresponsibility.

   There's a lot of things that make you feel better. After the drum beats though, after the electric waves of sounds though, I am back at it though. Behind me is a nice cushion, and under me is a nice carpeted floor that supports my bum, but it doesn't sit right. I don't sit right. Notice me, things, things, notice me. Distract me from this freak.

   'I wish I have clarity and purpose, rationale in everything that I do. How efficient would I be?' I had thought. As I write something headless and tailless, and decide to press 'publish' to no one's liking, or understanding. Hey, the sun will rise soon.

What's not a distraction?


Enjoy responsibly,
Michael