Default state of being

still mulling through the muck of my inner systems. 

it’s been two years. Like a survival journal, I desperately document my futile progress, a blind body in a sufficatingly tight corridor, all prickly surfaces and sensitive pustules. Currently like ontology in dusty old texts for us, me-boring, frustrating, sad. But Beach House might have something to do with that. Sunshine on burnt groundspace. I have pent-up imagery that pulls back like a ticklish limb when I touch it, tease it out of hiding. Looming walls as obnoxious self-conceit, oppressive shadows in action to steal my other lesser looming walls (college, school, productivity). Inability to write normally. Returning to my past like displaced refugees to ruined homes; hurricane hubris pummeling my meaning of progress. I touch one thing and it exists for a while in an ephemeral embrace, wholehearted obsession-and then- a breeze in the wind tosses the thing out of mind, never to be embraced in the same way. A pathetic attempt at escape. Escape from adulthood, away from the enduring past that affords only crummy fodder for consideration, pure trash further tarnished. 

Anyways, I seek novelty to try to preserve a youthfulness I feel and realize is rapidly slipping away. A return to the new! Why do I like the old then? I don’t. I only enjoy it because it is a discovery, a spark of excitement(ah! novelty. ah! youth). Always trying to pass myself up.  

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