Christmas Tree Man
2026-09-29
Less shit, not more. Especially with being more manic recently, my capacity to make decisions is disoriented by the constant streams of interconnected thoughts; oh, and of course there's the increased lack of impulse control. Whoops. The overwhelm gets so discombobulating that the only thing I really know how to do is let my soul go on autopilot while the spirits have their way with me. I can't really take it when I try to actively discern all the bullshit that's getting conjured around my nous, but I try to have faith that these nuts still hang, and that whatever silly little fiction I can conjure about my life is one that the Good Lord Above has allowed me to see. I'm crazy, remember? But even as I sit here and let the thoughts pour out onto the page, I find myself even less washed, as if the writing muddies the mind more than it may have cleansed it in the past. Such is the affair of a sordid Christmas Tree Man.
I've been trying to be better with my pent up energy—walk it off, sweat it off, be merry and glad to the people God decides to let me send my heartfelt wishes to. Still, it's a tough thing to remind myself that I am a weapon; whether one of words or otherwise dastardly physicality, there's much danger that lurks behind my corneas.
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