oneirophrenia | (no subject)

I feel like an ashtray this morning.

And I keep telling myself, over and over again, "Everything's for the best...everything's for the best," but I just can't spit the taste of ashes out of my mouth, or seem to scrape the grit out of my goddamned eyes.

The Zen Buddhist ideal that I've been fighting my way upwards toward for the last halfyear or so is to ultimately let one's-self be like water--flowing unstoppably around any and all obstacles in one's path. But right now my waters are choked with filth and char and salt...like a trickle running down the side of Mt. Saint Helens after the big eruption.

Too much muck. Gears can't work properly--half of the rusty little things barely worked to begin with. It'd be a task of ages to get them clean enough to run again and you know what? I have the patience to clean them off and get myself running again...but I just don't have the strength anymore. The weight of all this shit on me is too much to shift.

You never know how heavy an ash-fall is until you're lying under one. Welcome to my own personal Pompeii.