The Weight of Being Noticed, The Ease of Being Forgotten

The House Always Wins

Photo by Amy Humphries on Unsplash

Purpoise Writing — The undersea equivalent of humping whales, but less ghoulish. No animals died for this inflection.

I’m not a considered person, nor a gentleman of note. Not twee, not extraordinary. I care little and beget nothing. Ordinary. Unremarkable. I say all of this with certainty.

I’ve hit a low. A proper one. The kind that makes you want to hide, to cloak your words in obtuse meanings, to recycle the same semi-literate vocabulary in the vain hope of being mistaken for an intellectual.

This is a low. As Damien once sang about some girl who left him, possibly because of his narcissism. His world revolved around him, and his tragedy was his own design. A fight for injustice that nobody else recognized. His meager existence, penning pop songs no one wanted to hear.

This is my fucking low. Clinging desperately to the idea that things will work out. That everything will be alright. But visibly regretting the choices that led here. The enforced homelessness, the sticky situation of my own making.

This is a fucking low. The urge to bury my head in the sand, to ignore everything in the desperate hope that it will all just disappear. It won’t. The days edge closer to the big move, and…