Existential scream

This is too hard. 

It has gone on for too long. 

I have nothing to show for it. 

Sometimes

Sometimes, the amount of distress we have exceeds the size 

of the container we have to keep it in. 

Around about now

 

Around about now, I meet with you, in a pleasant social setting. 

I miss you terribly. You know that. 

I meet you, and I look you in the eyes, and you know the depth of my feeling. 

Then, I throw your ring at you, and walk out. 

This is what happens... except that you never actually bought me a ring, did you, you exploitative lying pieces of shit. 

I could be getting ahead of myself here...

I could be getting ahead of myself here, but there is a certain sort of comfort in knowing that my readership is so... sparse. Gone are the days when I pointed my blog at all the traffic-getting places, and now it's just mostly me in here, shouting (or mumbling) into the digital void, with the occasional attention of a few people I know. On the one hand, it frees up my writerly urge-to-purge, and on the other, it provides an ongoing reminder of my existential insignificance. In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing but a line of squiggly shapes on a virtual page that disappears when no-one is looking at it. And, no-one is looking at it for the vast, vast majority of the time. I do not flatter myself that there will ever be any permanence attached to any of my work, least of all this. (My work, apparently, does not warrant payment and as such I have not been paid for well over two years, and this too is a fact that reinforces my personal claim to inconsequentiality in all aspects of life, especially those in which the fruits of my labours find their measure). My digital product has faded, just as I, too, have faded from the field of vision of those who might, in fairer times, have granted me the benefit of their attention. No matter. I may be tormented by the interminable injustice of it, but I won't be extinguished by it. It is apt, then, that I continue to be represented, fleetingly, by these fragmentary dots of light and un-light, in a moment of connection that will end as soon as you click away from the page, and yet persists in a dark, forgotten un-space, until next it is seen. 

There has got to be a better way to do this

There has got to be a better way to do this ...[whatever]. I mean, if it's not bad enough that I've done it once and forgotten how to do it, I now need to do it again, which requires a whole new bout of remembering. Everything, it seems, demands some fresh hell of mental tasking, casting about for the gauzy remainders of whatever it was I knew the last time I managed to get the damn thing done. One might imagine that the act of repetition would reshape those elusive, but necessary, mundanities into a firmer cognitive agility, but even my most confident attempts are thwarted. It does seem as if the most simple tasks are made difficult, Always, by the simplest things: a login, apparently expired. A password, apparently forgotten. A field on a page, inexplicably not functioning. A stupifying wait for an unhelpful call-centre operator. A thing, misplaced. It might pass as disorganisation or personal ineffectiveness to unkind observers, or those who are not acquainted with my intellectual capabilities. Those who know me know otherwise. It is not insurmountable, but it is tiresome, and tiring. 

(Just between you and me, I suspect a handicap, rather than a disability). 

Unsaid

How do I say that which remains unsaid? 

How do I give even the tiniest part of it breath, a voice? 

How do I climb out from under the weight of forgotten years? 

How do I distill this most precious into words?