It can’t be any real mystery. Diet is everything. Today I feel limber and lithe. I don’t hate being here. I don’t hate being alive. I don’t feel like a burden on those around me. Yesterday was another story. Sleep hygiene was off. I slept until 10:30 or 11am on Wednesday, seduced by the serenity of the pharmaceuticals. Breathing was so serene. I may do it again on Sunday but I know the sensations are mutually destructive. Serenity is harassed by the feeling of waste. Time wasting. Waste is a mean, mean substance. Everyone wants waste gone, right? So why do we wallow in it? I had a moment last week where the toilet was clogged. It happens. I could barely stand to contemplate it much less look into the bowl of shit I’d created. Waste is like a vermin. It is a vermin. Waste is unwanted, but it abounds. Sometimes I think I am determined, on some level of consciousness, to waste this life, to waste every day.

I was going to post to a depression message board/app. I’m not a fan of contributing content to other peoples’ ecosystems. But no one’s reading this shit in this location, and some of the articles written by others on that particular app are not bad. But with depression I always ask if anyone is listening to anyone but themselves. And if you are being listened too very closely you have to ask why, and who, and for what endgame. And really, what do I expect to gain from oversharing everything I’ve been chewing on in my mental cud these past weeks? Do I expect sympathy? I don’t want that. Encouragement? I’m too selfish and stubborn to accept encouragement or advice. The exercise would be completely self-serving, with only a dash of hope that I might connect with someone on some other level. People still meet that way, don’t they? Organically, if anything online can be considered organic… Orgasmic… ORGANIC CROONING, I GROAN AN AGONIC RAGA.

I need to determine once and for all if there is an elevator on the Brooklyn-bound W train platform at Cortlandt Street. I don’t mind the 3 flights of stars going down but in the AM it feels harder than it might have a few years ago. I was thinking about this sedentary life I’ve landed in. I think it’s responsible for the paunch, the pre-diabetes, and probably other ailments I’m too masculine to acknowledge. I look for jobs that keep you moving. Couriers, bartenders, construction… I have long wanted to be a foot courier. Get paid to walk. SOmeone here, I’m not sure who or what his capacity, but he commented on my walking that he apparently sees me do every day. He commended me for it but I’m not sure who he is or how he witnesses this divine spectacle.