I wrote poetry yesterday. Poetry. I felt sad and instead of writing a blog post I wrote poetry. Poetry of the depraved. No, I don’t know what that means: it wasn’t depraved, or if it was depraved it wasn’t depraved morally but emotionally. Poetry and sadness go well together.
I felt vulnerable and I fell asleep at 11 o’clock with my radio and all of my clothes on, including a sweater and a dragon onesie that I had pulled over my clothes. When I woke up I went on the internet and watched a monkfish being eviscerated. No, I went on Facebook and I continued feeling vaguely sad, although I felt better than I had earlier in the day.
My brother is here and I am not sure if that’s good for me, but if it’s not good for me it’s not his fault but mine. I would like to hide myself underneath a woollen blanket and wander through the woods in a near-crouching position, blindly tearing through the frozen underbrush like a demented spirit seeking someone to haunt. Yesterday when my coworker saw my house she said that it fit my personality perfectly and that she and another coworker had been speculating on what my life was like, writing fables alone in my cabin. I said “Thank you,” for the ride, several times, and stepped out of the car, and when I shut the door I said “Thank you,” again: eager to dismiss or interrupt or prevent. Prevent what? She told me to say hello to my brother but she does not know my brother, so I didn’t bother.