Stupidity Hole

I was going to write about my ex but I don’t want to. I don’t want to keep writing about me. I’ve done it enough over the years. I’ve done it enough through the various forms of struggle. I’ve done it enough over the past months. I’m done with it.

A lot of writing is about the self, even when it’s not directly about. A lot of writing says something about someone, whether they intend it to or not. You get a lot of viewpoints and those kinds of things. I’m just tired of writing so blatantly about myself, however. It’s tiring. I’m tired.

There are so many things out there that are worth exploring and I’ve done enough of that when it comes to me. I’ve done enough introspection. I’ve done enough realising about where I went wrong in my relationship and realising that my ex is not going to take accountability for her actions, or actually talk about taking accountability for them, and there’s nothing I can do about that. And it hurts; it hurts like hell because there often felt like a lot of judging and resentment and guilting. A lot of lack of interest in what I was doing outside of work. And there’s nothing I can do about that at this point, and I don’t see a reason to write about it so much at the moment. But I’m compelled to, or rather, the desire to keep crapping on about it is there, but it doesn’t serve me. It doesn’t serve anyone. I’m not offering anything that is worth the time.

In front of me are a series of lines and shapes forming structure that I recognise as the interior of a building. I recognise this for what it is on a surface level, and I recognise that a structure is more than just its constituent components. A structure gains meaning that extends beyond its shape and form, and its meaning is as still as it is constantly moving. This is what it is. But right now what this is is something that is a structure that I recognise as a building, and that’s fine. That’s interesting. That still is worth talking about in some way. This is something that goes beyond me, and it goes a long way as a temporary landmark.

But right now I keep feeling the need to write about myself and my getting dumped, even though I don’t want to. And it sucks because I still love her. Despite all the hurt caused, and despite the unfortunately real possibility that she lied about loving me near the end, I still love her deeply, and I miss her. I miss someone who won’t engage with me but keeps looking at what I’m doing on social media, and it’s all sorts of confusing and fucked, and I don’t want to be involved with it anymore, and maybe I can’t force my way away from everything. Maybe I can’t write about something else.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 08:50:90

I was meant to upload this yesterday. Fatigue reared its head. And so on, and forth so.

I don’t think I wrote anything decent here. It didn’t need to be said, but I said it.

Written at work.