— from Bright Dead Things by Ada Limón.
Month: September 2016
Five Stars or Nothing
Got a lot of negative thoughts brewing as I reduce the amount of food I eat. There’s this watch clamped onto my wrist recording all sorts of data. It’s hot outside. I’ve got a headache. It’s taking a whole lot of will to not go out into the deep night in search of something savory. All I can think is, “This is not enjoyable. This is pointless. Death’ll come along and this’ll all mean jack shit.”
It’s the being in the world that makes it more difficult. Being outside with the options. I need less options, no choice. It’d be a pretty damn manageable situation if I had two solid weeks in which to be alone, locked up in a dry house with one boring type of food and some water. Misery under controlled conditions. A screeching reset. But I’m in the world and there’s no getting out of it. Every evening, on that long stretch between work and home, it’s the purest hatred. Hatred for success and failure. For feeling good and feeling like shit.
And for anyone who achieves balance. They can get the fuck out of here.
When it’s the one or the other and brain chemistry demands satisfaction, pleasure will win every time. So the hell with pleasure. Just the hell with it. My brain’ll get along.
It’s cool now, but boy do I get irate late in the day when I cut off the fast food.
Five Stars or Nothing
Got a lot of negative thoughts brewing as I reduce the amount of food I eat. There’s this watch clamped onto my wrist recording all sorts of data. It’s hot outside. I’ve got a headache. It’s taking a whole lot of will to not go out into the deep night in search of something savory. All I can think is, “This is not enjoyable. This is pointless. Death’ll come along and this’ll all mean jack shit.”
It’s the being in the world that makes it more difficult. Being outside with the options. I need less options, no choice. It’d be a pretty damn manageable situation if I had two solid weeks in which to be alone, locked up in a dry house with one boring type of food and some water. Misery under controlled conditions. A screeching reset. But I’m in the world and there’s no getting out of it. Every evening, on that long stretch between work and home, it’s the purest hatred. Hatred for success and failure. For feeling good and feeling like shit.
And for anyone who achieves balance. They can get the fuck out of here.
When it’s the one or the other and brain chemistry demands satisfaction, pleasure will win every time. So the hell with pleasure. Just the hell with it. My brain’ll get along.
It’s cool now, but boy do I get irate late in the day when I cut off the fast food.
Five Stars or Nothing
Got a lot of negative thoughts brewing as I reduce the amount of food I eat. There’s this watch clamped onto my wrist recording all sorts of data. It’s hot outside. I’ve got a headache. It’s taking a whole lot of will to not go out into the deep night in search of something savory. All I can think is, “This is not enjoyable. This is pointless. Death’ll come along and this’ll all mean jack shit.”
It’s the being in the world that makes it more difficult. Being outside with the options. I need less options, no choice. It’d be a pretty damn manageable situation if I had two solid weeks in which to be alone, locked up in a dry house with one boring type of food and some water. Misery under controlled conditions. A screeching reset. But I’m in the world and there’s no getting out of it. Every evening, on that long stretch between work and home, it’s the purest hatred. Hatred for success and failure. For feeling good and feeling like shit.
And for anyone who achieves balance. They can get the fuck out of here.
When it’s the one or the other and brain chemistry demands satisfaction, pleasure will win every time. So the hell with pleasure. Just the hell with it. My brain’ll get along.
Five Stars or Nothing
Got a lot of negative thoughts brewing as I reduce the amount of food I eat. There’s this watch clamped onto my wrist recording all sorts of data. It’s hot outside. I’ve got a headache. It’s taking a whole lot of will to not go out into the deep night in search of something savory. All I can think is, “This is not enjoyable. This is pointless. Death’ll come along and this’ll all mean jack shit.”
It’s the being in the world that makes it more difficult. Being outside with the options. I need less options, no choice. It’d be a pretty damn manageable situation if I had two solid weeks in which to be alone, locked up in a dry house with one boring type of food and some water. Misery under controlled conditions. A screeching reset. But I’m in the world and there’s no getting out of it. Every evening, on that long stretch between work and home, it’s the purest hatred. Hatred for success and failure. For feeling good and feeling like shit.
And for anyone who achieves balance. They can get the fuck out of here.
When it’s the one or the other and brain chemistry demands satisfaction, pleasure will win every time. So the hell with pleasure. Just the hell with it. My brain’ll get along.