The man & Tom Wolfe - very existential

eugghhhhh

it's not getting any better.

i might need to enroll in therapy.

i'm so out of it.

Chris being here was good.

but it seems i care about people more than they care about me.

always.

i am the ultimate means to every end.

it doesn't help that i've got so much to do.

it's all on top of me in a way that has really thrown me off balance.

the worst thing is when people think it's all about them

when it almost never is.

how come cigarettes are always so dissatisfying?

sorry

article has now been taken by a magazine.

Book review on Tao Lin's Shoplifting also due to be published.

Hamlet is all about existential authenticity

all the characters are wary of mauvais fois.

here is a choice example, piqant and powerful:

  Seems, madam! nay it is; I know not 'seems.' 
  'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, 
  Nor customary suits of solemn black, 
  Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, 
  No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, 
  Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage, 
  Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, 
  That can denote me truly: these indeed seem, 
  For they are actions that a man might play: 
  But I have that within which passeth show; 
  These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

cognitive behavioural therapy

positive post now to get things back on track.

the last few days here have been incredibly beautiful,

sunshine brightens anyone

like a familiar smell

or an old person's genuine smile.

i find myself with

skyward eyes

gazing

in a quite dumb morass of longing.

for something like meeting someone without alcohol.

my teaspoons and pens are being overworked.

get better.

get better.

thanks pip.

i think pills remind me a little too much for skittles.

taste the rainbow.

yeah, i will thanks.

i do get childish pleasure in things like that

like a magpie with shiny coins

and flower markets

full of colour and life.

get better.

get better.

a mind is a marvellous thing to waste.

awkward beauty.

heavily depressed

i'm developing a Sartre like lazy eye

good look

pun intended.

i have so many projects

which i want and need to start

and so many jobs

i haven't done

but i'm in a catatonic state

almost physical paralysis

a numb, pressing despair.

i can't write anything other than Pessoa/Soares like thoughts

and smoking is back on.

fucking hell

i don't care.

i think i might actually be addicted.

i don't even think i can rationally say it's not the case any more

i do desire cigarettes

but only when they are in my field of vision

very rarely otherwise.

in more exciting news

there's another poem of mine due to be published on EveryDayPoets

and two poems published in Issue two of The Lemon Press.

I will scan on an image at some point when i'm either less melodramatic or more energetic.

pray for me?