I can feel it, this subtle combination of detachment and emptiness that tinges my soul. Like I’m a foreigner in my own mind, rolling through these days without really knowing why. It’s not that I’m looking for something, but, rather, I wish I were looking for something because if I knew what to look for then I’d probably find it. But I’m not looking for anything at all, which is why I’ve wound up here, again, doing the same shit I always do, half bemused and half amused but definitely not motivated in any way to do anything about it. I blow through the breeze, landing at the anywhere that I have been heading towards haphazardly, and then lost as soon as I get there. Although, despite the fact that I am definitely fucking lost in this disease, I’m still not looking for a way back home. Perhaps because I know that there is no way back home, and also because even if there were, I would never find it. The only comfort I have is the permanence of being lost, this coziness of my own confusion. I know how to do this. I know how to be this person. I know how to wander aimlessly through my own life. I don’t know anything better to do.
Published by ablogaboutthedevil