I know the song lyric is 'wake me up when September ends,' and maybe 'nothing lasts forever, even cold November rain' is a better lyric, but either way, the post is dreary.
People are leaving Twitter (yes, I'm deadnaming it). By people, I mean the privileged--middle class, affluent, elitist-orgs, celebrities who are tired of ... being challenged about their dogma? Peasants talking back to them? Elon Musk acting like a rabid fanboy? It's not clear.Twitter has swung from heavy left-centric to shifting right-centric. Neither option is good. Bluesky or Threads are all the rage (for now). My old ass tried the former, found it dull and hostile, and now I'm trying Threads after accidentally finding myself on there. In an ideal world, the introvert in me wouldn't be on social media. But the hussle as a small-time author with a small publisher means the job is never done. That's not the point of this post. I don't like November. The first week of the month should've been the greatest moment and yet the sulk has kicked in--the book release of The Civilization versus the anniversary of my mom's death, a fender bender, the scale, and the cold. There's a delicate unravel as the dark days are here--no more Halloween/pumpkin pie season. Nothing lasts forever, even cold, November rain. But do wake me when it ends.
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I don't get nervous. I try not to get excited. I am not used to 'good things' happening to me. I am superstitious. Will I jinx myself? What if this is all a dream? So many dreams die in the womb of imagination, never quickening into existence.
It's closer, getting closer, and yet I still can't feel it in my grasp. When is it okay to feel it? When is it okay to say it aloud? Am I an imposter? I feel safe in the liminal. I feel content in the drift of never knowing, letting the rip tide of the mundane soak me through, never letting up. But the mundane is so safe for so long. So calm for so long. And then it begins. And how will I handle it? Watching the Olympics and protesting the Olympics at the same time.
It's weird hanging on to youth or pleasure, because the things that once brought you pleasure can so easily slip from your care. Few things interest me. It's a fight. Struggling to write, struggling to sleep, struggling to eat. This isn't a cry for help but direction. I understand deja vu --I have been here before --day in and day out. The sameness, the lameness, the aimless. When will it rain? |
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