Sluggish Scribe

I sit, unfocused. Eyes glazed and indifferent. The world bites at my heels, threatens to swallow me whole, and yet I face it with a still chest and a level gaze. Courage? Indifference doesn’t know courage, it can’t. And knowing that makes the entire situation worse, ten fold.

I ask many for advice, each a person of my own creation.

If the measure of sanity is social acceptance, then perhaps my duplicity keeps me out of the madhouse. If the realm of genius is bordered by a thread of insanity, I’m more than willing to tug on it. Everything makes sense, but only in theory so nothing makes sense in actuality and retrospective sense is usually distorted. Ergo, in actual fact, i exist in uncertainty.

And who wants to be there?

You cannot easily focus in such a shadowy place, least of all when carrying the shoulders of a lazy man…

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