I’m trying too hard.
You can always pinpoint the exact moment you recognize that sensation – a confluence – a coalescing – too many thoughts all going a million different directions: I should do this, I should do that. I should be doing this right now. Why am I not doing this? Am I a bad person for not doing this. What is doing this? That word is losing meaning and I think I’m going to flow a little unpunctuated I’m a bit too anti-style and my blog makes no sense how taoist of me but not really that’s an an asinine remark I should be more considerate of taoism. Phew, need a breath here. There’s so much I want to do and I’m a perpetual commito-phobe; not because I think any things are inherently bad, but because I’m so crowded internally I have to do everything at once. It’s a great paradox, really, The harder you try, the less you accomplish. Try to do everything accomplish nothing. It’s all a matter of time, really. You can’t tell when i’m interrupted in a sentence like this. I kinda suck at research; maybe I should fix it. Isn’t the semi-colon a nice punctuation mark? I have so much respect for montaigne, man, like you have no idea. This is trying too hard. This is like Joyce at the end of ulysses, but there isn’t enough to grab onto. No sensory details about that cypress on the edge of forever, nestled between a legitimate thought, and lilies falling from the sky like a shower of mid-light and John grant’s singing softly in his endangered dulcet baritones and Leopold bloom is there for some reason. This is too experimental. It isn’t edited enough. I’m not edited enough; I’m only restrained. Danger, danger, danger will robinson. Not enough hyperlinks. Too many obscure references, but not really. This paragraph has gotten frustratingly long, and unnecessarily meta: a biography of Eric’s writing style. Third person, ew, perhaps I should drift to that place called happy. There aren’t any cypresses there, and there is no reason for them to be there, but I like the premise. The palace of open spaces in that limitless unknown of the mind; not the brain, though, because the brain is finite, it is looped, it only suggests the lamniscate – which a fancy word for infinity – and it suggests it poorly, in a mirror, like a hall of them. These masturbatory exercises in form are frustrating to even me. I can’t muster the energy for sarcasm. It requires too much from me. It would require sitting up straight in my busted leather chair, with a slight incline that’s just high enough to be good, but not enough to be endearing. I have to look at this constipation of text, and be ok with it, somehow, knowing that, at best, three people will read it. I have no point, but I find it more honest than having one. And perhaps that point is lost in today’s consequential lifestyle. Things not people, all that pretentious mess. And I watch it from my pretentious perch. a little white tower taken from some sci-fi poster on a van der graaf generator album that you’ve probably never heard of, and don’t need to have heard because prog rock is a pretty tough genre to stomach on the best of days. The desire to be consequential hampers everything. I need to improve, to genuinely improve. After writing this significant block of frustratingly non-dense text, with few allusions, I’m going to sit down. tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. It is always the horizon that intrigues isn’t it? The sun that sits resting gentle despite the space of millions of miles, so far that light fails its instantaneous message to earth. The photonic necessity of earth is diminished by 8 minutes and my obssessive compulsive feelings, not disorder, never disorder, is about something less than that, somehow. Something more too. And I see all the oblique angles, all the lines that go nowhere. And this is trying to go somewhere. Trying to be something. Forcing itself to be clever, or witty, but it’s a giant block getting gianter, how many times do I have to repeat my comfort at being invisible, before it becomes evident i’m lying to myself?
Honestly, I don’t know. Once I stop trying thought, maybe it’ll get better.