The moments between the witching hour and first light have become my only solace, giving me a rare and brief clarity, a lucid introspection into the machinations of my soul.
My conclusion is that I don't particularly care for the person I've become. I don't relish the idea of being blackhearted and acidic and bitter as the template for my remaining years on this piece of dirt.
At the same time I also seem to have painted myself into a corner with the paradigm that it's too late to change some things, that some things are too ingrained and embedded to shake loose, that my brain has hardened over like a dried-out kitchen sponge and is incapable of taking in any new information.
The calendar I bought last month is still turned to February, as if I don't change it, I won't have to deal with the future; I can just stay in an stagnant, artificial, toxic feedback loop indefinitely. The Zen theme I purposely chose is stale and contrived, (so much for being a better Buddhist) the plain line drawings too two-dimensional, too sticky and clingy to the past, the old ways, the first ways, the simple ways.
When I get this way, I can't help but get all turned around and wonder why things can't be simple.
And it's because nothing in this world is simple.