230326

amendable

this is not a diary entry. an entry would be essentially dishonest. none of the words i’ve thought these past few days are suitable or necessary. i cannot describe feeling. everything i write comes with residue tastes of dishonesty on my tongue. i wish i could fall asleep and wake when the confusion is over.

the ideal is to live out your hellscape but live it earnestly, keep pedantic records, word for word. i falter in believing. listlessness turned pungent as the rains dried over and carcasses from abscission were no more drenched or alive along the sidewalk. there is a rewritten and unfinished story. perhaps it will never be completed. i put it off and erase the identity-making in a fist so it will not be. i would like to say i do not believe in identity-making, that i do not believe in nihilism, i do not believe in the dread in the news infiltrating my body.

no words in here, in this language, will hold the stiffness or lurid clarity of truth. not in this language. not in this language. i was to finish writing about my language, and all the distance. maybe i have never written honestly. there is some respite in the absurdity of trying trying trying trying to get this tongue to reflect the patterns and notes and conformation of my body. i don’t want to think about is it enough? does it stay enough?