I used to take long walks when I needed space to think. When I got a car, the long walks stopped, and long drives took their place. I don’t want to know how many hundreds of dollars’ worth of gasoline I’ve burned away for the sake of aimless introspection. I shouldn’t have even bothered buying all that gas; I should have just set actual dollar bills on fire. It would have accomplished the same thing: nothing.
I’m always making up excuses in my head. I’m always giving myself bullshit reasons to wallow. Go out for a drive, I’ll tell myself. It’ll do you good. It’ll help you clear your mind. It never helps me clear my mind. It just wastes time.
I go out there and drive and I’m not even paying much attention to the road. I’m paying just enough attention that I don’t accidentally kill anyone, but the road might as well not be there as far as I’m concerned.
The only thing that seems to exist is my own self-absorbed and diseased brain. It churns and thrashes through the same useless, self-destructive, imprisoning thoughts. It traces and retraces the same patterns. It grinds and regrinds the past into ever-finer dust.
All I did today was drive; today disappeared. I don’t even know if I should try to get some work done now or if I should just take some melatonin and give in, and hope that I stop screwing around tomorrow.
T. S. Eliot felt that April was “the cruelest month,” and the motherfucker was right. My shit always seems to fall apart around this time of year. Maybe it’s because the weather’s so nice. The sun’s starting to give off some actual heat. Everything is alive and rich and colorful. I guess the world’s vibrancy highlights my dislocation from it.
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