the somatic expression of my underlying attitudes is quite persistent. while i wish i could exercise, eat, and sleep in moderation, there’s usually an inequality of stress placed on one of those points. last night it was eating. tomorrow it may be sleep. exercise will cycle back around eventually.
what’s missing in this picture is the moderator. who’s controlling these pointed translations on the graph of equilibrium? if i’m the triangle, must my illustrator be anything except its own authentic, spastic style? personally, the creative whims they pursue leave me reeling in unintended (but known) side effects.
it’s like i, along with countless characters, have helped build this shell; not even ikea standards, but palace-in-the-hills dedication. the elephant in the room is the inhabitant. musty, filthy, decrepit — a determined slump of human dread. no matter how nice the furniture, a place bends to the intentions of its suitor. it’s here i begin to evaluate the chaos strewn about the playground. this expulsion of dietary rebellion deserves its exit, as it’s doubly as childish as it sounds. we’re accountable for our exploration, yet i’m failing at the parenting of spirit.
it’s okay to admit wrongdoing, failure, or defeat. we can explain, sensualize, and elongate the instance into a handwoven basket; its proceeds must go back to the people. the purpose behind my errors is, accidentally and selectively, to help other wrongdoers miss a puddle or two. let me take your apocalypse, accelerate it, and leave you with the upswing.
with such desires, this must be a calling to serve. by engaging with misery, each and every day flips the same coin. two possibilities with only one result. this setup sounds familiar to mine. rule out the multiple choice and simply bring in the lie detector test. how will my procrastination fare against an accomplished, artificial detective?
the terminus of any evening is celebratory for the grateful and cursed for the persistent. which activities were put off yet another day? when did triumph turn to first-world tragedy?
i’d rather, than continue this path, skate off into the sunset landing trick after trick. but if that’s what i had, i’d wish for quieter times.
certain combinations feel correct. it’s less about the specifications, the colors, and the voice assistants; it’s more like the overall package is an irresistible deal offered to only the present spectator. a song, for example, will rarely be everything i could need. but when it is, there’s an elementary handhold coddling my conscious. expectations, comparisons, and gripes of guilt over the strayed projection of duty drop off as curiosity buckles its seatbelt.
“new”. there’s so much hope packed into the white space of that single syllable. it’s a fresh start, clean slate, and wrinkle-free, saturated hoodie. i’m habitually tempted to stretch my budget for the shiny shackles (i wish facebook marketplace counted as some other sustainable option of acquittal, but i fear the practice is too similar).
and there’s the judge ruling the decision. where was my testimony? how come i stone with the public when i’m a mineralogist? the ammunition i fire against myself is the structure of a subject struggling to maintain its chemical bond of perceived strength.
if muscle and might are under unity, where does experimentation live?
– D K T