“Been a while, hasn’t it? What’s new?”
“Oh, nothing much. Nothing worth reporting, but that’s never stopped me before.”
It feels about as good as the peace I feel directly after slicing my arms open. Or thinking about it, whichever comes first. Like I can exist around moments, not within them. I have maximum control, and no control over that control. A power trip. A dream world, where I’m taking a sideline scene and watching a gruesome yet utterly compelling car crash. It is all so boring. So, so boring. The only thing that quiets times like these used to be music. In lieu of that, I write. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Maybe that’s a good thing: throw yourself into your work, that’s how you pull through. What utter, complete bullshit. There is no reward, because nothing matters.
This is apathy. Three syllables, three points: mild, moderate, severe– take your pick.
“Silver linings, eh?”
“Oh, yes, of course. At least with all this writing, my typing has become impeccable.”
iamnotoldfashioned 