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.