“Who’s not a musician, Morty?”

Does being depressed make me wrong? And am I really depressed if I’m not usually unhappy, more just morbidly aware? It’s not like I’m locked in my room, crying and giving up. But we’re so small. I’m so small. And the world, it’s so big. And in the end, we’re all alone, maybe even forgetting ourselves, and we just rattle out and fade away, like pictures turning brown around the edges. It’s sad and nostalgic, but cliche and routine. Can’t I just enjoy the now, and fuck the rest? I want to crowd surf my life into the sunset, where I’ll just float into the bottom of the sea.

I wonder lately if my concept of love is fucked. It’s sad. I feel like maybe I’m Prismo, and not Jake, after all. I think I’m less romantic than Gary, but more romantic than Steve. I exist in a world between others’ worlds. I am a degree of comparison in the larger spectrum of people. I’m a file folder in the cabinet of experience.

I’m also kinda high. And super tired.

Recently one of my heros pointed out the difference to me between “shame” and “guilt”. Guilt means feeling bad about something you’ve done, where shame is feeling bad about something you are. I’ve been thinking about it at night, when I can’t sleep. Lately Matt is next to me, snoring just the tiniest bit. I close my eyes and try to keep my back straight so my neck isn’t sore in the morning, and my head goes through guilt vs shame. For years I was shame. I felt it so deeply that I converted my whole family to a religion to feed the cycle. Now I feel guilt. Incessant, unnecessary, eroding-away-my-soul-guilt. I think I feel guilty about feeling shameful. Or for being shameful? I was shamed, and shameful, because it was a self-fulfilling prophecy thing.

Niki went to great lengths to point out that I didn’t harm her. I’ll feel better after the “Both Hands” scene…

I’m writing to my nieces, and then trashing the letters. The older I get, the less confident I feel talking to them. What if I say the wrong thing? These are budding people, future voters and participants of a family that I help represent to them. I’d tell Steph anything-sometimes things I shouldn’t tell anyone, really-and I am second guessing half of what I say to her kid. I realized the other day that our kids will never be friends and grow up together. Aub is 7 now, and I’m not even looking to have babies. Some possibilities are passing me by, and I don’t know if I should feel sad. Or feel anything. It seems quiet, like watching a fishing line. It just is, and no one can make it anything else.

I started reading “I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings” and I recently finished “Zorgamazoo“, which was incredible. I’ll be writing a review soon. I’m writing a lot of camming stuff, and working on two or three story things. Distractions. It’s scary to write truths. I like fiction more.

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One thought on ““Who’s not a musician, Morty?”

  1. If you’re a “file folder in the cabinet of experience,” you’re the one all decorated with sparkles and animal stickers and day-glo doodles. (Here’s hoping things fall into perspective and you get your traction back. See you soon.)

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