Speaking with a friend earlier tonight about the feeling of being locked into surface. Skimmed without digestion.
Glanced at and not really noticed.
The way it feels to look at my phone, and literally seconds later when someone asks me the time, having no idea because I don’t really see anything.

It makes me dizzy to be so unobservant. It makes me wonder what the fuck I’m doing with my time, why I can’t be bothered to fill it with things that make me present, if indeed that is something I crave.

I feel like I’ve forgotten how to write with accountability. How to make words mean something more than an abstract consideration on the other side of a cursor. How to make pens bleed righteously, selflessly, happily, for the cause that is exploration of an ability to make the senses tangible.

I’ve become so accustomed to reading articles on the internet, not books. To write stories that don’t tell me much and inhabit white boxes of formless intention.
No back story, no depth. A snapshot that doesn’t tell enough of a story to make me want to continue to read.

It’s so easy to blame the winter. It’s been cold, it’s been grey, it’s been meh. And there will be days that will be hard. But there is almost never an excuse.

There will always be an excuse for those who need to pass the buck. Who need to live in a world where it’s never their fault when things go wrong. Who need to own nothing except the sense that they’ve been wronged somehow, that they’re entitled to a better life.

Fuck being that guy.

I want to be a girl with the depth of a keyhole, who felt as though she contained worlds beyond that door. But lacked the courage to unlock it because she was afraid the room was empty.

Perhaps she was afraid of being lost.

Or, of being found.