whelp, color me embarrassed

puppeteer (anarchy april #3)

no original thought behind my eyes because i read how to steal like an artist and now i don’t trust anything else i’ll ever read or write. think about it. how come kafka wrote about a cockroach and then a few decades later, lispector came up with the same idea even though she’d never actually read kafka. well, a vastly different idea but an idea no less. or maybe it’s just the eternity of cockroaches and maybe if you’re not seeing cockroaches for the profound and existential vermin they are, you’re not really getting it. and maybe i should be glad i had that cockroach infestation and i tried to murder them all but one still made its way into my homework and creeped onto my professor’s desk just as i submitted it. whelp, color me embarrassed (but he did give me a c so i’m not too sad about the fact that that cockroach probably has a great great great great great grandchild crawling around his office as we speak). well, if everything is a regurgitation of the collective writer’s brain and anything i write has been written but better, why do i care so much about what i (or anyone else i like) writes? i will not learn the lesson, will i? i started this because i was bored of my writing and now i’m getting bored of my thoughts which is lethal because i spend all this time with myself, rambling and rambling and on and on it goes. i mostly think about money, anyway. and money can be dreadfully boring. and i hate that i don’t think more about more better things to say like poetry but what i really wanna do is ride the orient express and maybe tell people that i rode the orient express and have people ask me what the orient express is. but it still hurts because i had this random idea we should live everyday like it’s the rest of our lives but no not like live everyday like its your last but like its technically the rest of your life because the past is the past and the future is so fucking unknown and the only thing we have to work with is right now. that got me out of a particularly nasty depressive episode, thinking about my life as a stack of pancakes glued together by syrup that rots the taller it gets and i only really get the chance to eat the pancake at the very top but never the one before. huh, kinda reminds me of the platform (2019) a little bit. but then i was reading this book (jurassic park) and the mathematician in it talked about that exact same idea but with sciency stuff and i was floored. there’s really no end to my mediocrity and or anyone elses and i also know that people say ‘no one has heard your story before in your voice’ crap but really would anyone really care? i mean, we all know some voices are nicer on the ears than others. what if mine isn’t (and will never be) nice enough. i think i just really need to get money so i can write books on the side that not a lot of people will read now but then i die and it becomes a cult classic to like a slightly larger group of people but at least, well, that would be something. but i don’t want to live a life of waiting for my writing to get seen in a way that it needs to be for me to get money to live comfortably while the entire time i’ll be thinking to myself as you buy my book, what the fuck do you even see in this shit, it’s so completely unoriginal. my ego and incredibly low pain tolerance won’t allow it.