I guess I will type it all here. I have that all too familiar ache in my chest again - the longing to hold the intangible, the need to know what is unknown. I am dumb in the worst way. I look in the mirror and the reflection is miles away. There is this need to live a life of substance and meaning, but what does that lead to? There is passion applied to nothing. It just floats up into the air and faintly drifts away, a little trail of smoke in a dark room. I have misspent years and now there is no foundation. How do you build on instability?  Lost, I feel wasted and spent, having done nothing, all at once too young and too old. There are two lives being lived: one inside my heart of hearts, and the other, all around. I get to see fleeting glimpses of this one inside, as the other often goes by in muted colors and muffled sounds. But what I see, I cannot piece together for there are no words. It is like I once knew another language that I have long forgotten. It is a secret known by no one.  It is painful to not know what is inside my own heart. I am good at everything and great at nothing. I envy those with direction and conviction, persevering through to get what is theirs. I feel like an un-tethered parade balloon, huge, empty and clumsily bouncing off of buildings with no aim or desire. I want to be more. I want to create this lovely existence. But instead, I fumble over myself and the opinion of others. It’s silly to say, but watching myself like I am the star in this monotonous documentary about mediocrity, is paralyzing. I don’t pity myself. I do not feel much. I feel guilty. The fact that I am, or we are, all conscious, is something of a miracle, or a fluke. In the fabric of time, I am the smallest tear. But in the morning, when the haze of sleep fades away, I wonder why I am waking up again. I know that due to luck of the draw, I do not have to focus on the most basic needs. I have a roof and plenty. I am not unaware of that fact. I am thankful that I am not starving or living in fear. But I feel like I am constantly on the edge of an ocean of ordinary. Ennui has become personified. I am poor and uninspired. The poor part is inconsequential, but the uninspired part is crushing.  There are moments of ingenuity, creative swells that cannot be named. They are few and far between. I feel like a tedious poseur. I am a just lying all the time. Mainly to myself, but maybe I have never been taught the truth. I want to cast off my life and be something new and unknown. I want to go where nobody knows my face or name. But it won’t matter, because the elements that make me up will be there too.  Everything I produce is a death rattle. Not a violent end, but a slow slipping on by. I used to wish for amnesia, but now I see that I have had it all along. I’ve forgotten how to be content. I am aware that nothing really matters, but when I go into the world, I am reduced to these basic conditioned interactions and reactions. I want to be this madcap wild person, dashing about in the rain, laughing in the face of it all. I feel like my soul is an orchestra waiting to perform and my existence is a stock photo. How do I get up there, when I am stuck on the curb? I want to be a scholar of life. I want to get in control of myself. I am not. I submit to the basest of urges. I eat what I love. I eat what I hate. I eat the world. But I do not digest it. I want things, but do not have the will to get them. I am taking myself for a ride to nowhere. I have been here for a thousand years. I wait for sleep always. I am a narcissist. I, I, I. All I have is myself. I am my own. That is what is most difficult. I do not want me anymore. My heart hurts. It might just explode from all the pressure. “Buck up, kid.” I cannot. My heart is too heavy for that. I go look in the cupboard. I go look in the cupboard again. I am lazy. Nothing has changed, but I’m still looking. I don’t feel badly for myself. I just don’t feel for myself. I am the color grey, I am static, and I am nothing. I am nothing. 

dangbros
This book gives me more information about penguins than I care to have.

In 1944 a children’s book club sent a volume about penguins to a 10-year-old girl, enclosing a card seeking her opinion.

She wrote, “This book gives me more information about penguins than I care to have.”

American diplomat Hugh Gibson called it the finest piece of literary criticism he had ever read.

(via siftingflour)