By the time words fail me I'm this gnarly mass of twigs, leaves and organic horrors and smells and ironies and the death of the will.
I'm still so confused about life sometimes that I often prefer the comfort of the doing nothing haze of catatonia. But I understand life at least in this aspect, in that this will not work in the long haul.
So many incomplete plans as the year winds down. My mind is exploding.
I'm getting four days off, off the grid, into the wild--at least into the spiritual wild. I'm going to a Trappist Monastery to write and think about things.
I hope this makes me happier. I had a friend tell me that while I hate people because people stress me out and are so hard to understand, I need them because otherwise I will end up killing myself.
The thought is not alien to me, but then again, I suck at follow-through. I'm not even kidding.