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A f T E R T h E A E T h E R N E T ][ radiolullaby.smol.pub .............................................................................
(* so titled because my work-week calendar starts on a saturday, my days off are random, and there is usually nothing that resembles a weekend [1])
a human face at the corporate prison farm I know of as work asked me to take a week off for stress leave
recently, I wrote "Everything seems to be getting in, beneath the carefully constructed walls of thorns" [2]
but that's not it, exactly --
rather, because I've been trying to fight my way out of this necessary waste of time (you don't need me to elaborate on the eternal struggle between humanity and 'the soul' versus the crushing heel of capitalism, we all know how this works by now) by returning to the one thing that gives me a sense of purpose (writing -- and music, but writing for now) it makes it harder to put up walls against the hoards and the noise, harder to mask, harder to breathe, harder to take the abuse. Perhaps I've been cutting myself by putting my fingers to the thorns, and slowly unravelling them -- because that is the only way I can create, because one cannot create if one cannot feel [3] -- and this in turn has led to stones and arrows digging in. I don't have an answer for myself yet, but putting up more thorns, giving up who I am, being crushed by the system, is not an option.
well, it is nice to know I am not dead, yet. sometimes, I've been wondering.
in the past I'd read how writers like to observe people, and I've been feeling like a fake, as it seems I can no longer deal with all the people I'm forced to interact with every day, which has led to me approaching every one of them with a distinct sense of dread, and weariness. I no longer have the energy to court even cursory attempts at friendship, let alone-- let alone...
anyhow, how can I be a writer? I began to think. I hate other people.
and then I went to the husk of the city one weekend, and found these random passers-by the subject of curious inspiration. without much effort or deliberate intent, I discovered myself making up stories about them, safe in the knowledge that I didn't have to interact with them at all. and I found this fun, even energising.
this is not what I came here to write today (in fact I was more thinking of a darker entry involving a parallel to Doctor Who's Lucy and The Master), and it's also not particularly eloquent, but today I will forgive myself for that.
☆＊━━━━━━ † ━━━━━━＊☆
[1] https://www.ranker.com/list/soviet-union-calendar-weekends/genevieve-carlton
[2] https://social.yesterweb.org/@lilliphilia/108087782527832351
[3] this is not to say that one must/must not be a tortured artist; it simply means that one must surely feel _something_
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