Internal Monologues
I have a running script in my head that repeats between 3 and 5 phrases every. single. day. A lot of the times, I can catch them before they start spooling out in between my ears, but sometimes they get a head start. And when they do, it's all over.
“What is you purpose?”
“So here's the thing...”
These two are the most frequent. I find myself clawing at the edge of my sanity for some sliver of hope, some glimmer of a reason to stand up straighter and do a better job at existing. Sometimes I find what looks like a thread a pull at it until I find out that it's only a piece of hair with a turd on the end of it.
But around and around it goes, these little snippets that frame my entire day. How am I supposed to enjoy the drive to work if all I can think about is how I'm a failed writer? How do I look at the world with any level of stoic indifference when I have been conditioned to try to find myself on top of it? Where is the reprieve from my own insistence of meaning?
It's never ending, and I want to use this space in part as a landfill of sorts, dumping what I can of these scripts here so they might be rid of me.