my deepest moments of depression and sadness are made in a moment of relapse and despair. they are impressions of the world as I have inherited it and I have no time for its silly shapes and horrendously boring narratives. I cannot stand to look at it anymore. I cannot stand to grope around like a disfigured mime as if love were really possible if only interior landscapes were as stable as a hut on the coast of a Degas print. there is something lacking and profoundly stupid about the despair and anxiety that I feel is a mandatory part of being alive and in the world today. wherever one might seek immersion there is instead a more demanding work schedule. happiness and love become mutilated limbs of routine and I cannot stand it. there is no room for existence in everyday habits and it kills the fibers in the lungs of concentration. in the pattern of acceptance one wears a chastity belt to passion and to discovering the hidden cracks of the universe that are the salt pilings of our pitiful urbane existence. I cannot accept it. and in the profound loss of life and time sacrificed to the death temples on those salt pilings, I rage against them in constancy and anxiety, reminding myself that men who lay bricks and build cities can think of other things. I understand now that they must, for the sake of fury and of community that is greater than the peripheral landing strip of hair around our sex organs, for power that takes its labor for its own rather than pouring out its veins into cupped hands, begging to the pieta for mercy.
