#441

The past week has only seen me grow more untethered from reality. As I make the clock real again in order to pin myself to its hands and thus ride its motions to and from a physical place, it loses what lax grip it had on those hours not devoted to that process. Losing myself more completely in what I'm doing and thinking and the fundamental neglect of the realities that involve paperwork and phone calls and emails and telling agencies that your income has changed--all that is as vapor which dispels as soon as I realize it is there, unnoticed till it vanishes again at my mind's accidental touch.

Been spending hours just standing in the sun, thinking. Looking at the plants in my backyard day by day. 

*

Also doing a bunch of shit. Painting and mowing and hauling and digging and chopping and planting and pulling and vacuuming and salvaging and breaking down and  planning, planning, planning, my mind a frothing ferment of ideas and timelines and stratagems and concepualizations of every description I can generate. 

Awash in tides of flotsam. A floating life in an infinite void informed by infinite debris, infinite illuminations.

Reading books and playing games more than before, seeing friends more than before, talking with Ezra more (we always talk a lot, but sometimes there are phases where we can't seem to fit in every idea and story and problem-solving and whatever other thing that we need to even though we never shut up--exhausting, but exhilirating), getting to know coworkers and the new job. Time seems to have dilated and set to a sprint; even as the days pass more hurriedly they giving the impression of having slowed overall--feels like two months since last I pounded words into this blank, yet the actual seven or eight days have perhaps carried enough in them to justify these contrasting impressions. 

And yet it does also seem that I come to myself after an unspecified span of sitting on the couch, staring into the middle distance, having thought myself into a perfect silence. Days where the depression is bad. Days where I don't even know what the fuck is going on and I barely drink a glass of water. All I can do is follow my own private thread, the double yellow line deep inside my brain the only guide, no compass, no altimeter, no clock, no stars.

*

Change. Hm. 

What is this life? All its seasons and transformations, its dragonfire and its long and lightless nights?

*

Hm.

--JL