Regular Stuff

Good morning, Rob

When I’m waking up I can’t tell if my life is shit or great. Is that right? I don’t know that that should be the case. There’s about two minutes of falling through fog until you’re clear and yourself again, and you rub that crap from the nook of your eye and blink, and remember. Then you know how you feel. Until then there’s your chest rising and falling and the light in the room.

The blankness is fearsome. The internal sentiment that outlines and provides texture to the universe is coming, like a glass filling up, and until then there’s no feeling.

It changes only when bearings are noted, plaster is felt on fingertips, cold comes over the pulled-off sheets and splashes on you, and you concretely itemize what has happened to you recently and how you feel about it. Then the texture is back, a little bit.

It takes a hell of a lot of wind out of living, though. I am important. There is no thing in the universe as central and salient as me. Even tornados, girls, bombs and God can do nothing but change my perspective on things, and it is still me on the throne of myself. You would hope I would be able to distinguish frightening depression from renewed ecstasy on an intrinsic level. Nothing belittles those things like not knowing you currently have them, and I start to feel pretty god damn silly when they creep back in.

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