This is not the way it was supposed to be; but it is the way
things always are.
It seems as though this blog is only ever returned to in
times of crisis. It is a sump of misery and shit.
This is the hottest day of the year by a distance, and I
might as well be lying in bed with a fever or a broken leg for all that I have
accomplished. All that happens is the sweat continues to rain down my chest,
and time itself passes.
I am waiting for something to happen, for the work of fiction
that eddies in the mind, and stretches the meat of my torso, to write itself. It
has not done so, yet if it does not, I no longer feel capable of doing so.
The desire to write it, and the stasis in doing so, causes all
sorts of problems.
I can't be bothered to empty the dishwasher, and I am prepared
to let the state of the house deteriorate to the extent that, were it up to me,
the three of us would be living in the street. I am unconcerned about everything,
and it would not be an acceptable attitude even were I able to write like a genius.
I am not able to write like a genius, though. I am not even able
to write as well as I could as an 18-year-old journalism student.
This is the way it always is. I write nothing of any value, and
exhaust myself in the pursuit of it.
