the day drifts down mean to its own end and bitterly settles into memory. i drift into this dazed sense of ennui punctuated by spikes of fight or flight like whitehot sparks. and more and more i find i’m defined by the pinholes this leaves burnt into my consciousness, and yes there is a pattern, a loop slowly closing in on itself. and what am i doing while being undone by some recursive reference? well, at the moment, not a fucking thing. to calculate why, you would need some numbers, as in years spent relentless against this error, raised to the power of all the things i lost in the process divided by the things that passed by while i was incapacitated by the futility. divide the answer by the sum of my past, then subtract the resulting percentage from what i have left of this life, and maybe you’ll understand when i say i’d rather accept this decaying orbit and its inevitably messy ending than waste any more of my self struggling against it.
i just want less loss.