Unstuck in time in anticlimatic

I feel like I’m on a tram that is flying along at about 3 miles per hour. Motionless and sedated. Gazing generally forward with milky eyes. I think it’s time I stopped smoking reefer every minute of every day. I think my brain has been cooked to thorough completion. The engine of meaning that drives my motivation is in danger. It’s like the belt is loose, and the main drive pully periodically skips and stops. I’ll be standing in my kitchen in the candlelit autumn with Nina Simone on the radio and the smell of warm apples, caught completely in a mood- and suddenly it will sputter- fade to gray, and I’ll feel tired and suddenly uninterested and directionless. Then it will sputter back again. Perusing memories brings similar fits and starts.

I need to travel more. I have been clutching all of my pennies out of necessary prudence, as I am of that severely endangered demographic of the millennial middle class homeowner. One wrong financial move and the bank’s taking back the house and all of my hard work. Things aren’t cheap like they were a few years ago. Without newness- without the act of shoving forward into unknown avenues- taking them in with my senses and judging a means to penetrate further to the next clearing- I do not feel like I am in congruence with the nature of my presence and existence on this earth.

If one can’t move forward, one might move backwards instead- and that’s no direction to go. Nothing there but the call of languor and death.