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“That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.”

--T.S. Eliot, The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock

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The Awesome Power of Procrastination

*Trigger Warning: self-harm The power of procrastination is so awesome that even though I have been without Internet access for several hours and I have things that I think I want to do, I have spent that time lying on top of my bed thinking about how I would do all the things I want to do if I were to do them. Very productive. I think that the ideas I have are worth so much more in my head, I can fetishize every negative feeling and pretend that it makes me special or interesting in some way. But when the thoughts become words that I type out and read back, I realise how banal everything about me is. That's probably the real reason writing blog posts and writing in my journal gets a little harder every time. Here is a quick list of the things I should be doing right now: On Tuesday I had a very intense dream that was terrifying enough to make me feel slightly separate from my body all week. Even now, everything feels a little unreal and abnormal; I haven't stopped
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The Crushing Loneliness

“I know in a way I never knew before that there is nowhere for me to go, nothing for me to do, and no one for me to know. The voice in my head keeps reciting these old principles of mine. The voice is his voice, and the voice is also my voice. And there are other voices, voices I have never heard before, voices that seem to be either dead or dying in a great moonlit darkness. More than ever, some sort of new arrangement seems in order, some dramatic and unknown arrangement -- anything to find release from this heartbreaking sadness I suffer every minute of the day (and night), this killing sadness that feels as if it will never leave me no matter where I go or what I do or whom I may ever know.”
--Thomas Ligotti, The Nightmare Factory


I haven't written anything in some time, mostly because I am always so disgusted with the things I write. It's self-indulgent and pointless. But I needed to write tonight because the feeling of loneliness is crushing me. It actually feels like my limbs are being crushed by hundreds of kilograms of raw loneliness. I have been lying in bed for over 3 hours, unable to get up, trying to think about the best way to ease the pain a little. I thought about writing a poem, but I started to fill with self-disgust at the very idea.

Then I thought about how sex used to make me feel less alone. But it's been so long, it could easily be nostalgia conjured up by a mind desperately looking for a stopgap. As I remember, it felt like slipping away with someone to place only occupied by the two of us. Our own little pocket universe of pleasure where we could enjoy ourselves and each other. It ultimately proved to be a shallow connection, but it was the only kind I ever experienced. I miss it.

The loneliness is crushing, as it always is. And my words are disgustingly self-indulgent and pointless, as they always are. But at least it's not a poem.
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