Need to do a bit of a decompress after that bit of writing that just came before this one just before this one. A bit of a decompress to recompress and then impress upon the insistence of my belligerence.

Really I just want to try and write fast but I don’t know if success is in my pocket right now. Will just have to see what happens, really.

It’s still morning. Still day. Still a bright day out there, and there’

s a bit of a breeze now. Makes it a bit nicer. That’s good. That’s kind. That’s good and kind. I like seeing it; it adds a sort of confirmation that things could be okay. Maybe not right now, but they could be. And that’s good. I think.

Of course I don’t always think, but when I’m not thinking I still am. It’s a vicious cycle and I don’t like it… until I do, in which case I do like it. How it goes, really. How it always goes. Nothing changes, but the colour changes hue, and the world changes, and what am I doing, going on about change so much recently?

I think my brain is elsewhere. Elsewhere fighting whatever, fighting demons in my mind, finding food and eating it the best way that a one person can eat food.

The dog is still asleep. It has woken up here and there, but it is asleep. A good way to be.

I’m thinking about going into the city today, mostly because I have to in order to pick up some TEA. This is just going to be another day of days, and ut’s stiff that needs to be done as I purchased it and I need it for an event of sorts, but I also don’t want to go to the city. I’m quite happy being away from it, to be honest. There’s something nice about seeing the wind in the trees and the sunlight reveal a slither of spider silk. I don’t know why this is nice, but I find it to be. That’s what I have to say about that, and so… yeah.

So a day lies ahead, I’m sitting here doing the thing that means that I’m slowing myself down, in terms of getting things done in a timely manner. Is this a bad way to go about things? Yes, yes it is. However, this is what I do better than anything else. Therefore, I must do it. It is in my nature to procrastinate and not take responsibility for my actions causing issues, and I refuse to change this. I refuse to do anything different. You can’t stop me.

Nothing can make me change and change will not be had, when all the dollars are whole and the world is an expense. Or something.

These slow days are great, however. It won’t be soon, but it will be later. It will be a slow and pleasant one, and there will be things done and things not done, and everything will swirl around in an order that makes no sense, and that will be the way it all goes. It will continue, this senseless making, and it will continue with all of the gusto and laziness that it requires.

But no, this is a slow day. Busy, but slow. Like a river meandering aimlessly, though rivers do have aims, so… I guess a kid meandering aimlessly? A kid without a care in the world, splashing about, walking upon walls, experiencing the world as a small person, with a big world small, too. But I don’t have that wonder. I have to get through things still. I still have to produce and create, and I still have to get to the end of the day in one piece. I still have to do that much.

Well, so do kids, but the point is that I’m not a kid and I don’t have that kid wonderment anymore, on account of not having been a kid for a long time.

Well anyway, I think I’ve said all that I can say. This is where this ends. Or here. No wait, maybe it’s over there. Maybe it’s not anywhere. Maybe this is yet to end and I have overestimated my confidence and ability to write in a fashion that is compelling, entertaining and provoking of the thought. Tickling the mind, the brain, those sorts of things. I’m sure I’ll work it out eventually, somehow. Somewhere.

Is this the end of this writing? Is it still over there? Am I yet to reach a satisfying conclusion? I don’t know. I don’t profess to know. I don’t want to profess to want to know. I don’t even and odd and in certain structures, with certain forms of knowledge, think that I can ever know. It’ll just come at me, one bit of bad writing at a time. How it goes, how structure forms, how things regurgitate around here. Unchanging, never flinching, but always finding the way it needs to find in order to make the point that it doesn’t need to make, and only upon greying tides and never on grey ties.

Yeah, so that was a load of crap, but it came from me so it must be brilliant. It must say something about the deep desire of people who want to find where they lie when the moors moor themselves upon the moors.

I think I really am just throwing whatever together. It seems to be working, but the end was meant to be earlier, and yet it wasn’t and so I’m still going on and I don’t like it. I want my rest. I want this to stop. It’s still going. Where are you, end of bad bit of writing? Where have you gone? Why are you not visible to me? Was it something I said? It could have been anything, and I didn’t mean to say it or hurt you. I’m sorry, really sorry.

Oh, here it is.

The time it took to write one thousand words: 12:12:63

Happy with the speed, happy with the mess. Mainly the second half, however. I feel that I was getting more in the zone and sure, it’s clear I’m stretching things out, but I think it works.

Written at Killara.