Too tired to die, too awake to sleep

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.

When you love physics but hate math

My creativity feels like a stream of photons being scattershot through a pinhole. Hoping to magically land against photosensitive paper and thus become known.

To leap full formed like Athena from the head of Cronus.

But this pandemic and the life that has been forced on us because of it, bends away the light.

A black hole forcing away a mind used to the sounds of a raging river. Changing to the low hum of the background count.

And each day is a question. Is the cat alive or dead?

Will today be one which makes light?
Or simply a burden which necessitates the digging of a grave.

This slow spin down

Wondering when again I will wander in a direction strange.