moroses, neuroses

the 'book of disquiet' feels apt for times like these, where your unfeeling soul is suddenly flooded with feelings unknown and there is no way to articulate it or placate it except to turn to a book that does it immaculately, beautifully, tragically. you know it's your neuroses, hormones, whatever, bodily imbalances, that is throwing you off the wheel, and you use that as an excuse and reason to further justify the feelings unknown. and you wallow, and you seek some sick respite from the wallowing, and then you write, and then you feel good because you know it's only at times like these that produce something authentic, or at least vaguely authentic. and then you bolster your sense of self-importance and cling on to the best bits of the past, cruising on your ego, your blistering, disgusting, sweltering ego that begs to be grown, moulded, pampered. and you know what you previously did was all counting toward that, and that is repulsive. just repulsive. and then the days go by and you feel good again, you ignore the conscience, you let it slide, you tell yourself other things, you become again. and you sink and you rise, sink and rise, and sink… those people were good people. what am i? how can i possibly be your fucking muse?? (gross that thinking myself of that)