Thursday, November 15, 2012

How To Journal #2

I'm unable to amuse myself, or no longer, in which case I'm unwilling, slightly, to believe in remembering I ever was. I mean, I'm able & mostly believe I'm bodied--things appear to happen with some sort of intention on my part, and the others, my "functions" go on as usual, perhaps even, these days, more frequently--in short, I could go to the shower right now & think about some lady unto whom I cower ever so strongly against myself towards and various fluctuations across her flesh made tidal with pendulous mutual motions & I could slather out some shampoo & stroke--but I don't want to.  I'm saving it, like money for the kind of vacation that's the kind of fun of only by paying for it.  That feels stupid though.  I don't understand what's gaining & why it's not losing.  I wonder where's my trauma, but not too loud.  I wonder if as a baby I ate & defecated at the same time.  If anything's natural & frequent, or frequently natural, I'd bet that's it, since i can't understand how a bet's any different than a not-bet, which as I said, I don't think so much as can't feel exists.

I hate this is the truest thing I can say right now.
People are rotten everywhere.

But I've never been there, & even if I had I wouldn't know; but I just apologized for it--can that count?  If I can count, maybe you can too. Then we'd get to higher numbers on a newish scale we could pretend for a limited time again to value knowing the value of.

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