Untitled
I let the ocean spill
from my soul
somehow;
the digital
emptiness
is full of cracks.
Woke up today feeling unbearably sad. It's existential, the kind of thing that stems from feeling like the things I'm doing don't matter, and that nothing matters, or that maybe some people find meaning in some things, but not my things, and I'm not finding meaning in their things either. Why do I try so hard? Why do I care how many followers I have on Instagram?
Money. Why do I care how much money I have? I already know I could be happy with very little living on a beach with a very quiet life. Still I push and I push and I try to make things, write big things and little things on people's skin and on big and little screens. And some days I wake up ready for everything and other days I wake up like today, inside of existential dread.
This is the regular me, I know. I wake up like this sometimes. It doesn't worry me. It's just so slow.