Reprisal and the frustration of unrequited success ache within the soles of my feet, my ankles are swollen and my toes are blistered. There can be no ownership in such a world as this. Nothing is mine.
A future will rise on Tuesday, a daily fixture. It has been regularly promoted and invested upon, I have told of it before. I even left once. It sings its own name, it is an indicator of nothing other than a desire to indicate, a statement of statement of statement. It is an enabler, fecund and sure, a geographical fix that roots and ties. It’s everything I never wanted, but I feel better for the chance to neglect it. It is easier to make a decision negatively than positively. But what if you have nothing to negate, what if your question makes no sense?
Rejection would leave me rejected.
I am drawing up the blueprints of purpose, fully aware of their false economy. The creation of living space in which success is an inevitability, is itself a necessity. The truly depressed man creates a house in which failure is enviable as the product, the house’s highest form, an expression of personality where personality is derided.
I build stories like houses, but rarely live in them. I was in there for ten minutes. They had already decided, but my knowledge is yet to be determined.