It is hidden in minutiae swimming in pixels, a series of interesting findings that must be shoved so fast I barely see them.

It's in the myriads of details of social events and conditional switches of a relationship that's warm and comforting but distant.

It's in the struggle to pull half-assed fools along in a project that this half-assed fool has been in too long.

It's wanting to sit on a floor caked with cigarette ash and weed flakes, listening to Belle and Sebastian play "Dear Catastrophe Waitress," and petting a dog that is now dead.

It's being so hopelessly angry at every one of my short-comings that I can't help be recognize the touch of my mother's genes in it.

It's fighting the fuck out of yourself, beating your stupid ass with a sledgehammer of emotional abuse, and generally making clear that you will not tolerate the failures you've already committed, God forbid others, all with the understanding that,
As usual,
At the last moment,
You will somehow race,
Down under the wire,
To the finish line,
Which is really just,
Another starting gate.

A barely living spiral.

If I wasn't so afraid of everything I'd seriously consider starting over. Scratch. Cut away the complicated horseshit that gives a pound of grief for an ounce of enjoyment. This is the path to slow madness and death by an early vascular complication brought on by chronic rage.

My patience is sausage casing.

And most of the things I admire about me are overshadowed by that same tell-tale force. That same white-hot self-hatred that immediately outstrips everything of focus. I well and truly want to beat the shit out of myself so that I can somehow snap out of it.

So that somehow this Godless dream can end and I can wake up and I can scream "what the fuck was that?"

Couldn't even guess.

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