A weekend in the country. It was like we were outside time. The dream I always anticipate. Now I’m overwhelmed by it. A false dream. Ease. Simplicity. A life working out. (How would we live? Where would we get money?) Wanting to be free from responsibilities. Freed from. As if vacation could be stretched to an eternity. Of course it could not. And I wonder what I am so anxious for to happen. What postponement I seek. In myself what I do not wish to address. It’s the same feeling when I imagine something “working out” or happening that has no right to. That couldn’t. Or could and would but won’t. Getting in the way of myself. Earlier this year. Loving, distantly. What would have happened if I had just been patient? Not in terms of: imagining a relationship that I’m not sure could “be.” But in terms of what I would discover about myself. Patient with my own feelings. I write about myself so often—but in truth that might be about the only time I ever truly interrogate that subject. Mostly I am interested in throwing my consciousness away, as if I were a bucking horse. That’s what I did these past—two and a half-days? One and a half? I’m afraid of confronting what I refuse to interrogate. When I’m like this it’s like that episode in season five of Bojack Horseman where he keeps taking pills, living in a dream life which merges fiction and reality. Requiem for a Dream. Popping in and out of consciousness. Barely registering. 

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