Aw Didums.

In the wilds of my brain, in the unknowable, and ever shifting lands of my emotional turmoil, I find that I am lost. I have been waking lately with a curse upon my lips, a sneer for the little village around me, and an overwhelming desire to just go back to sleep.

Sure, somewhere in there I know that I do not treat myself so well, that I am not well enough for treats. I feel a great need to purge myself of everything, to fast for days on end, to cleanse my body, my soul, my creativity of all the silt that collects on the riverbed of my being.

I feel a torrent of aggravation threatening to pull me under. A world of dissatisfaction weighing upon my shoulders. Dead-end jobs abound, but what do I have to offer beyond that? My writing is growing its umpteenth layer of mould, the words swirling round my brains just not wanting to come out. The spare tyre around my middle is so firmly ensconced it might as well be set in stone, and yet I cannot afford to engage in the sorts of exercise that inspire me. Climbing gyms are exorbitant, climbing equipment impossible to travel with, skateboards cost to much, there ain’t no fuckin’ snow to ride, and I have not the time to walk for days at a time in the woods.

Boo-fucking-hoo. Or as my learned friend The Beast would put it: wiggy wiggy. He’d also tell me to stop being so fucking melodramatic and pessimistic and appreciate what good things there are in my life. But I’d tell him to shut the fuck up.

Wiggy wiggy…


~ by Gethin A. Lynes on October 4th, 2007.

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