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Bittersweet Charlie

Rephrase that shit.

Updated: Jul 10, 2022

I can't sleep at night. There is never an ahhhh moment of falling back onto the pillows. There are just bizarre dreams and sweaty t shirts and fitful tossing. I can't stop sleeping during the day. There is never a readiness to start, just passive delay of beginning work until I get caught being in the wrong place. There is existential guilt for not being more energetic, and a sense of absolute certainty that other people are out there slaying at life with their American work ethics. I do not approve of myself. I am so disappointed by this person, so baffled by how she was able to sink so low. I stopped taking my prescriptions for depression and anxiety. All of them. I take them here or there but despite being in healthcare and having all of the information about how big of a no-no that is, I guess I don't think it applies to me. More accurately, I can't muster sufficient rips to give. And I gained weight and lost structure. I feel myself failing at what used to work.


And yet. I find that I must rephrase that shit:


In a form-less way where I can't yet find the details, I intuit that what used to work is yesterday's news and it is not supposed to fit anymore. I still go to work, and I get off the couch and water plants and put groceries away and take Charlie for walks. So, since I don't have another plan, why not try this:


Let it die. Sit in the new unknown.



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Stream of consciousness

We have these partial thoughts without slowing down to name them, and they let off their stink in the specific shade of our fears.

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