“Deep inside,

I am a lazy screw-up and I have developed this very elaborate construction to outwit that impulse,” he said.

- CNN Hires Anthony Bourdain, NYT

petit prince, unbearable darkness

you can't use being fucked up as an excuse forever...

monomyth

"For centuries Daedalus has represented the type of artist-scientist: that curiously disinterested, almost diabolic human phenomenon, beyond the normal bounds of social judgment, dedicated to the morals not of his time but of his art. He is the hero of the way of though - singlehearted, courageous, and all full of faith that the truth, as he finds it, shall make us free.

... Furthermore, we have not even to risk the adventure alone; for the heroes of all time have gone before us; the labyrinth is thoroughly known; we have only to follow the thread of the hero-path. And where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god; where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves; where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existence; where we had thought to be alone, we shall be with all the world."

Joseph Campbell - The Hero With a Thousand Faces

i just don't knoooow what to dooo with myself

giving up someone as a nemesis is far more difficult that giving them up as a lover, even in a schizophrenic way. (hardly any sane person ever accomplished anything unprecedented. i'm starting now, for the sake of my sanity.)

yet one easily becomes bored out of her skull with no equal/opposite motivation for havoc-wreaking, existing largely outside the creation/destruction necessity of competing alongside a worthy rival (partner). chaos ensues when meaning disintegrates, sleep wastes too much time with nothing to counter and wool-for-brains lies on the floor aimlessly, not bothering.

the story reads almost too pathetic at this point, when all perceived schemes unravel as incoherent navel-gazing insanity and will be promptly abandoned, finished unfinished. what is our protagonist to do when unsettling peace reigns in the land and the forces are not-to-be-quite avenged but exorcised nonetheless? got the tan and the bottle, can't quite seem to pick up the woods and irons just yet. a cat perhaps.

my, my. what a waste.

how sad, shapeless and formless, randomly misaligned.
what a yet obvious limp, with cowering downcast eyes.
one should never pity ruins of great cities for their timely destruction, yet how uselessly vindicated am i standing still looking upon one.

Oh Muse! send another, deluge me; the riverbed dries up and cracks in such famine.