Thinking of Cobain's words about the abortificant brings some cold comfort on this hot Wednesday. I feel icy inside, cold and cruel and glad I'm keeping my mouth shut. It's not a great day — too little sleep last night after a late walk and talk (which led to a whole lot of thinking that I didn't need to do). Too much inner dissonance today — what exactly am I?
Feelings of utter insignificance wash over me. It seems I'm really nothing more than a convenient chit-chatter; asking someone to help me suss out something serious upstairs is met with smooth silence and contempt. I'm learning my lessons the hard way. It's part of the monomyth, I suspect, and I'm alright with that. This road isn't smooth and paved. Not even close. Every pothole is jarring and cracks my head. But I'm a Writer, goddammit. The Dark Muse is supposed to make me suffer, amirite? Besides, isn't this all about finding the ultimate boon, the holy grail?
You know, that which does not kill me blah blah fucking blah.
Meh. Just ... meh. I feel very much like anemic royalty today, the life distilled inside of me. Cobain was wrong about so many things, but when it came to a Leonard Cohen afterworld he was right on. I want to sigh eternally. Would anyone really notice if I slipped out to do just that?