Almost feeling guilty for being this calm at this point in time, knowing how the surrounding mountains have the tendency to rearrange themselves, to erode upward and form the steepest slopes as days pass. Even the sky seems to feel it: wind rustles leaves almost ominously, telling of a storm that has somehow spared this pathetic metropolis, mocking the buildings for their paranoia before spitting on their facades.
These coming days, remember, we’re told. Society dedicating increasing lengths of time to the holiness of nostalgia. That consciousnesses, like trees, do not fare well without roots, lest we all go adrift without the wisdom of the ages, making old mistakes and marveling at wheels while fingering phones for pseudo-woke shitposts.
Told myself I’d make most of the day, but so far all I’ve gotten is a few lines and an excess of caffeine. Can’t focus anymore these days; ever felt like your brain was conspiring against itself, trying to convince itself that everything happening is worth turning to, that life is a gestalt that cannot be approached at without a wonderment at its minutiae? Why the need to understand every damn thing, at the expense of what you need to hold long enough to write down? What are you trying so hard to prove?
Crowds scare me, like when people are like water and there’s no one to breathe with and you’re not drunk enough to feel it flow.