Do I repeat myself?

I feel that I repeat myself.

I feel that I come here with the same problems

and the same descriptions of them

time and time again and I haven’t

solved any of it so I’m probably doing something

wrong here.

That’s an oft-repeated word. Wrong.

“To have been seen doing.

Wronging.”

I think I once wrote that in here.





It may just be hopeless. Pointless.

Over and over in circles we go.

I’m getting really tired of myself.

Is something that I think I wrote in a physical journal.

But it’s all the same.

There’s no point in writing here.

This part of me that creaks and whirrs into motion,

trying to find new and different words for it,

opening up the thesaurus in search of writing

that is somehow more pleasant or pithy or meaningful

or resonant or affecting or, to really get to the truth of it,

good.

I recall a gorge, the falls, the tropical humidity,

some trip – called a vacation, I think – that took me

somewhere on this globe that is not here.





I found it!

Eureka, a discovery.

The thing I couldn’t describe to her – of course I couldn’t,

I’m not doing anything very well right now.

It’s not that I was doing a bad job noticing the parts and keeping

track of them.

It’s not that I needed to draw a map, although I will not discount

the potential helpfulness of having drawn the map, because

it would be wrong of me to do so.

It’s that I cannot seem to summon this elusive self-energy.

It’s as though I have none.

It’s as though the exercise itself was an exercise in hopelessness.

Who am I to interact with any of these parts when I cannot rise above them?

Or extricate myself from among them, become separate.

In relation to, not merged within.





I am just a tiny speck on the corkboard of this dome.

And we’re throwing darts at it.

Pinning thumbtacks.

I have failed.

I have forgotten my mission.

My raison d’être, if we want to get French about it.

I have been derelict.

And it’s not even okay for me to be upset about it.

I should give up and close the document now.

One little rush of tears is surely enough.

Surely, in fact, there is some quota of tears to meet,

some amount of catharsis necessary, and it is my job

to wrench that amount of catharsis out of myself.

And I have done a bad job of it!

Better give up now.

You have to understand how collossally stupid it feels

to be wrestling with the same damn problems over and

over and over again.





Somewhere I know that I shouldn’t beat myself up over it,

that beating myself up over it is, in fact, a large part of the problem.

It’s the underlying thought-behavior that I’ve failed to stay vigilant of

in the first place.

Of course I’ve been so derelict!

And look at me, using the same word more than once,

I’ve been derelict in my evasion of repetition as well!

I feel completely outside of myself.

Locked out.

I have no access to self.

Sorry, we’re closed!





Oh, I’ve skipped a little internal interaction.

Failed to make it down in stenotype.

A little bit of self, a little bit of room for it.

Look at me, says the part, lonely and despondent,

and most importantly wrong and doing a bad job.

And the self said, “Okay,” not-unkindly.

A memory, single-player project m 3.6 training room

on the family computer in the living room, next to the porch

where we’d keep the door open in the summer and

you could hear the crickets and peepers.

Debug mode.

I learned how to see the guts of the game.





Well, I still think I deserve some punishment.

Sweet self-punishment.





the place that contains the list of the containers of words