I am in bad shape. My heart is falling apart.
I look down at a piece of paper. I have written, without realizing it: I am in bad shape. My heart is falling apart. Why have I written that there? When had I written it? Just now, apparently. It is a lazy choice of words and I don’t approve of myself for having written it. It is not very compelling. It is because in my head I am so full of myths and pure fantasies that I am usually too busy to write something. And then I find myself writing something, something lazy, like, I am in bad shape, and I then disapproving. What about myth, and pure fantasy? Not everyone has studied symbolism before, nor even found god, to say nothing of truth and of beauty. But it would do them no good to have done so; they would be no better off for it.
It is very difficult to say anything these days. There is so very little that needs to be said that it aches me. I dream up things I could say to people, and sometimes, even, I dare to dream about things that people could say to me, although that is the stuff of pure fantasy. Life would be too good, if people said the things I dreamed for them. Soon my eyes hurt; I have been concentrating too hard. My head hurts. Everything’s aching. I dope myself up and lay in bed and say absolutely nothing, nor even dream of saying something, for the rest of the day.