19 Aug

There’ve not been many entries for the last little while on account of not having anything to say. There are periods when there’s little or no desire to put anything out into the world and it’s these times which make you wonder why you ever started saying anything to anyone not immediately in front of you.

The need to constantly produce is a bit shit. But you put yourself into that kind of a trap and I suppose you’re creating constantly one way or the other in any way. There are few people more miserable-looking than those on the streetcar commute at nine in the morning. The homeless people on the streetcar at nine in the morning look maybe horrific—though horrific for-the miserable-looking commuters; not necessarily for-themselves—but still there must be a middle ground.

Better sunglasses.

A younger body.

Cleaner sheets.

More time off.

Better coffee.

Better, more readily available sex.

Fewer givings a shit about what society or others want or expect of you.

Warm weather.

That sweet coconut bread.

New thoughts, a little more or deeper understanding of whatever you studied in undergrad.

These are the things you can work toward. Could you imagine if you did everything you did for just these things? Every shoelace purchased and tied and retied and repurchased? Countless times and then eventually you get tired of your sunglasses anyway. Maybe you get a second pair. But after the first coffee of the day your coffee pleasures diminish as it is.

In his journals Gide wrote something about how ridiculous he feels about producing anything when there’s already so much shit in the world—either good or bad—but then again to his credit he wrote it in his goddamn journal.

But the next moment’s thoughts will be different.

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