each morning/afternoon i awake i find little to no joy in anything.
throughout the day i question the point of doing anything.
maybe a constant steady work flow would be a prescription.
possibly if i had something to do each moment of every day it may fill that void.
faint chances of happiness gleam in my eyes as i pass by mirrors.
i could stop and stare but that familiar look just comes back, does not compute.
i tried jogging once, but that just makes me want to kill myself.
and if i'm already depressed clinically, i assumed i should find another hobby.
i'd go to museums, but that causes more depression.
this is what art has become? lousy.
why isn't my work up there? it's lousy.
i couldn't make it up there anyway? lousy.
girlfriend? friend? dog? maybe a fish? all expendable.
maybe i'll study some foreign language so the voices in my head have some ethnic diversity.
if it was up to them, they would leave me. hell i'd leave me. i've tried.
maybe i'll move to portland and become an author, they all seem to live there.
maybe i should start writing books first? which came first the chicken or the egg?
either way i'm not getting arrested for screwing the hen, again.