Eating Doubts

nighttime. Awake.  In my head eating doubts. Old shit new shit batshit. Reading a book that at times connects and gives me ideas, thoughts of 180 (degree) actions. It occurs that the connections are for the longings for difference. This long death of a life I am living. And worse, killing those who espouse love for me. Killing their love. Killing their want of life. Certainly draining my own away. It falls away. Little pieces dropping here and there. Feeling empty, the kind of empty I generally fill with food or shopping or playings spider, for hours. On that odd occasion I complete the game it doesn't matter. That strikes me as evidence that I will never get better. I've not the courage to find and do what I must for any chance of happiness. I am afraid if I go where I need to , the hurt I create would be beyond repair. A hurt of the undeserving. The ones who are juat trying to be happy, be content. I am not content. I am not on the right path unless I have somehow strung a line with a carabiner so at minimim I'm riding a long still in touch. I am meant to be me - an artist I think, but at root, me. Sometimes I feel endlessly assailed by the outflow of others sometimes I ponder my eerie disconnect. An inneffectual, life. I consume and mostly just excrete.