Doomscrolling is the death of creativity.
It sucks me in. And with my tastes there are a ton of poets saying poet things. And rather than inspired, I feel like I’m not going to be able to write. Because they wrote it better. Their personal journeys. Their blood on the page.
My lukewarm days. My pedantic pedal boat. Moving slowly into the certain uncertain.
I’ve bled and cried. Burned and created. But here I am, a product of doomscrolling and too many days stuck without the people who make life good.
I gave up caffeine. More to do it than for any health benefit. Haven’t seen one 3 months in, to be frank.
My cats receive my attention. For both I am either never enough or always too much. And if that isn’t the echo of all my relationships, I don’t know what is.
My problems are small. Even if they are insurmountable. I have shelter, food, and safety.
What I find I have less and less of, is hope.
I used to believe in the undelible goodness of humanity. That when push came to shove, humanity would choose the brighter path. I can’t believe that anymore.
The trump years proved the overall despicable traits which simmer beneath the surface. And the now times have so far proved that this isn’t going to change.
I know that when things advance, there is a backlash. But this backlash is like a flywheel. By the time it stops, our wounds will be so grievous we will either fall or fury. And everything I’ve seen points to fall.
I feel like I’m spinning my wheels. But I know this world. And I don’t have the means to switch tracks.
No spoons, no funds. Just the endless parade of days. Wishing it were otherwise.
I can feel myself slipping into depression. There’s this deep uncomprehensible sadness that looms just out of view. I’ve just eaten my favorite dish, watching a show I like. I am restless and want to do something. But nothing sounds good…no,that’s not right. There are things that I know, if I started, I would enjoy. But I can’t work up the will to do anything.
So I lay in bed. Isolated from anyone who might check on me. And I hope that sleep will find me, before the crippling self doubt. Before my brain starts whispering lies. I write this in the brief calm before the storm. Because on some level I’m trying to reach out. Even though I won’t send it to anyone. At least not immediately. Maybe I don’t want help. Maybe this is what I deserve. Maybe I’m too late. Maybe I always will be
Rise as leviathan
Woken from fever
A blade bared and hungry
Quiets into painful lethargy
Though distance is constant
Roads least traveled feel less
Was once sorry
Torn between decisions
Lament for what may have
Sings a sirens song
And what may be
Drips from lips stained red
Malaise overlays bones
Tears just beyond beginning
Heart aches in ways mostly unnoticed
Pains drift to the background
Just trying to survive
Hard to be open
When being so would mean
Keeping the social contract
Soft petals turned razor sharp
Soft sadness at wounds too small to ever heal
Scarred by healing
Marks littering my body
Closed and hiding in daylight
A thing of thorns and pain
I grow full by starlight
Cloaked in the night
Scars hidden and covered
By the frozen expanse
Blooms shiver in the this never-ending
While I awake anew
We share a world but we’re not in the same one
Mine has dangers sharp as blades
Lies as comfortable as clouds
Truths as broken as glass
Plant yourself close
I will grow
And protect you shelter you
the broken rose of the winter night
A field of unknown stars
An ocean of pain and beauty
Beneath a frozen moon
Where do I live but in dreams?
For I am sleep itself
Dragged down each day
Stress breaks finger hold on reality
What takes time to break away, destroyed by word
Instead white noise dreams
What else is there
With each passing post I lose a little self
A little will to keep going
I build up walls
Which cannot stand
For they are built on the rubble of walls which came before
Never lose myself so thoroughly that it’s a fight to get back
But I can’t stop scrolling
Hope and anger
With apathy winning
Anger can’t sustain
Here’s a cat
Here’s something cute
Bulwarks against the tide
Drowning in truth
There is only so much pain
Even I can sustain
Before it’s too much
This is why the sleepers sleep
Not because they want to
Not because it’s better
Simply because while asleep
They can pretend they are not powerless
Not meat for the beast
This is how nihilist cults form
Because why not
Because nothing changes
Because for all the heights of greatness that humanity has the seeds of
They sit mired in the muck
Playing with mud
Pretending to be kings
Waiting for the hammer fall
Stress piled on stress makes mistakes
And each mistake feeds the certainty that job loss is around the corner
In a economy not hiring
Isolation becomes depression
Sleeping all the time
Uncomfortable in my own skin
Wanting extended conversations about nothing
When given social permissions to be myself I don’t do constraint or what is termed normal. I’m poetry and flowers and that tea you mentioned in passing that one time. I’m kisses and touches and tears. I’m telling friends that I love them and music, and songs made up and sung right there.
I’m either locked down or free and I don’t know how to be else. And I don’t know that I want to be.
So if you see me smiling for no reason or catch me with tears in my eyes or, on extremely rare occasion, complimenting some random stranger then walking away. Be happy. You’ve caught a rare glimpse past my shell. Something few ever see.
In joy and in pain I, like most of us, am hidden. A false front. A city of doors. A maze without end.
And sometimes…often…I feel so lost
I’ve talked about big things
I’ve talked about social things
I’ve talked about the inner workings of my soul
I’ve written erotica
One off spy stories
I’ve turned a one off erotica story into a fool blown series with characters and plot
I’ve written, performed, recorded, and edited a serial novelization told in 3 voices and perspectives which span numerous hours and which took an hour of editing per 5 minutes of audio.
Then I did that 2 more times
But now I’m having trouble finding words
But really it’s finding time
Time to sit and be without worry weighing me down
Without concern for finances which never consumed me before
I’ve been lucky enough to have a place to land
I’ve been lucky enough to have freedom enough to be able to write
Even though that’s not how I make money
I dislike having lost that
But I’ve traveled the road of preservation of past instead of future
And that is always filled with painful regrets
Paths cut before completion
It’s like there is a membrane where before was a open door
Writing still exists on the other side
Just now it’s an effort filled with stress and struggle to get there
Maybe it’s lack of sleep
Or maybe living unsettled like this is always a shatter away from failure
The thinner the margin the harder the fall
And at some point the fall seems inevitable