Man of Scribbles
2026-10-01
The rhetorician sleeps again. Two olanzapines last night, 400 mg of liquid caffeine this morning.
The uneasiness and looming anxieties that come with mania drive me to such tears of lunacy that the Lord can't help but smile down at my quaking, still-beating heart. Learning to love is something that hurts; it hurts so much, in fact, that it makes me feel even more strongly that I have to double down on being wrong, so as to hasten my path toward being right. But still, it hurts to love the truth so deeply that even when I think that the autopilot will take me where I need to go, I find myself looking at the proverbial GPS of my mind—directing myself even further down those streams of constantly changing feelings and ambitions. Yet most days, I find myself wishing to do nothing at all, so that my nerves remain still and not beaten down by fear responses to nonexistent threats. My central nervous system still doesn't have the faith my consciousness wants it to have. Even in those quick motions of crossing myself, courageously in public or slowly and tearfully in private, that deafening Silence still shows its love to me in my other, more inferior senses.
Coming to write is something that still helps, but being so forced to confront myself takes its toll. Inspiration is bullshit—try letting go of your own judgments and just put the fucking words on the page. High concept, low concept, whatever—it's all just crap on a screen or tucked in a journal somewhere anyway. Who will read it later? (You)? Maybe, but there's some credit in letting the thralls of one's education slip into the minds of others. No need to be so silly with preconceived notions of ego or esteem—you'll get turned right back into chow for the pigs, regardless. Bumpy roads make for funner car rides. Is there such a thing as permanence?
Illusions, illusions, says the Man of Scribbles as he carves his sigils in the sand. Washed away by the tides to come, but it did something—anything, please! Have you ever felt like you were already dead? Have you ever felt like the same track was playing, and some little imp was scratching the tape and rewinding it? New samples from the same old songs, even if I don't feel like singing them today. Rhythmic turns, tacit burns, all is lost when you forget me at t minus five minutes. I exist as nothing more than images, and any other humanity one may wish to place on me will be lost as they go out and smell other people outside. Let me be a good image, Lord, and have these works be that ransom for my stupid sins so that I may ascend via the depths of Your inconceivable, everlasting grace. A cup that always runs full, a belly never empty, a heart never waning—ha, gay!
This fat lady ain't done singing yet, buckos.
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