september 20 2024
it ends eventually. i don't like repeating such a simple statement all the time, but i do it anyway. i liked to think it made the loss easier, but it never did. i'm not under any assumption that saying this to myself over and over again is doing anything of help, probably the opposite, but it's the only real phrase in my head. it's the unique thumbprint of my brain. if you dipped it in ink and pressed it to paper, you'd see letters microns thick telling you how everything becomes lost and even this too will inevitably end. i don't know how to cope with the impermanence. with this impermanence comes replacement, and the replacement never fills you, never again, not like something else used to. and then you wonder if you have anything left to fill.
september 27 2024
i can hardly believe it. a confluence of peers and all of them know my names. there was a time when even hoping for this felt like a sick pain. the rot in my gut lingers into the moments that bloom before me. i've worked around this discomfort my whole life, no reason to stop now.
october 2 2024
i should be wandering. these legs can't be stilled for long. every time i walk without a goal, i feel like everything i'm looking at is only ever going to be seen by me. these sacred things are only mine for as long as i'm looking at them. they disappear from my memory as i fall asleep, though their emotional imprint remains. sometimes i feel sad for no reason in particular.
october 24 2024
you feel it as it unwinds. first it tugs gently, asking permission. then it starts flowing out, tracing you as it leaves. it spins around all of you, your body versus your essence. finally you are without form, and with your formlessness comes emptiness. isn't this what you always wanted?
november 12 2024
you're in a place where nothing comes to mind. transience passes around you but the age of it all stays the same. it is out of time, beyond it and lacking it. if you stare at the sky, you can see stars during the day. you're never here long enough.