6-11-25 I hate when I become hyper-fixated on my greatest source of frustration because it makes it impossible to write about anything else. My current job is wearing me down and it's all I can think about. If I'm not toiling away under the watchful eye of my very scrutinous and condescending supervisor, I'm interviewing or applying to jobs or tweaking my resume or thinking of blowing up my entire life to move back to my hometown and work in a skilled trade. I surely have a sense of entitlement, but continuing at this rate seems untenable. I'm probably just depressed, but I'm so bored with my own depression and its cyclical recurrence that being apathetic to all of my hobbies and interests has a "boy who cried wolf" air to it. It just feels like my life has stalled and I'm unsure of how to proceed; trying to find value in persevering through the banalities of adulthood and working life seems a tall order. Perhaps I'm just fighting through the transition from early adulthood into regular adulthood. Being irresponsible seems less sexy, and recalling all the times I blew my entire paycheck without a care in the world makes me cringe. But I'd be lying if I said that giving up didn't sound good sometimes. I know the relief would quickly wear off, and just lead to another flavor of guilt and panic. I guess that's my answer - I'm here and in this headspace until I'm not. Maybe someday in the near future, when I have a job that isn't the worst and I'm hitting my savings goals and have a little more disposable income for my hobbies, I'll relent and acknowledge that I was just going through changes. But for now, I ask: how fucking long will it take until I feel good again? Also, how many hours of sleep will make me feel less insane? 5-7-25 I am quiet ambient music that makes a boring desk job more tolerable; I am inexplicable ontological lack, and all sorts of questions that aren't made up of words, but just feelings; I am urban decay, peeling back the industrial facade to reveal something real that never really went away; I am shyness, dirty shoes, the same old coat with pills and pulled threads; I am writing in a journal when it's all quiet, save for the house's settling groan; I am looking out into the snow from a small window over coffee, landlord special paint job spilling onto the panes; I am sitting alone on the grass and feeling the wind as the birds fly by, and crying because I don't feel this free all of the time; I am running whenever things get difficult because I don't know who I am supposed to be; I am feeling strange when people say things are simple; I am barely happening when things are strange. I am 27 today. 10-16-24 "One has only learnt to get the better of words/ For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which/ One is no longer disposed to say it." - from East Coker by T.S. Eliot