I fell through a hole in the earth. My rope, I found, was not long enough to pull me up. I sat in its abyss for days, watching the days pass overhead and wondering who would rescue me, and whether I even wanted rescuing. Sometimes, I find myself searching for dank, dark places, almost as if I identify with their dankness more than with my own life.

I haven’t been silent these last few days. I’ve written something almost every day, mostly in my Moleskine, and almost none of it did I feel worth posting.

Hiccups strike me and I succumb to its sweetness. Agreements with the Devil. Sucking the last taste of salt from the bottom of the plate. Words, thrown onto paper, searching for connection, logical assailment.

Calmness assaults me. You have to smile at the thought. Variety is my food, challenge is my just dessert (with chocolate and fresh whipped cream, obviously). I’m back to writing nothingness and liking it. I’m sick of stories with their plots and conflicts and characters that refuse to cooperate or come out fully formed. I’m sick of writing without posting, which is like thinking without remembering (something I still do too often). If only there was a direct thought translator—I forgot, this is what this keyboard is supposed to be.

I imagine the rights of springtime, and then forget the imagination. I see the roads leading to other roads, and then stop to ask directions. The table, the chairs, the windows. Simpler things had never created. The ground outside rocks when I step, but it is not from my step but from the greater movement of the earth.

Such ridiculous thoughts fill my mind, and I throw them out here to show that I have ridiculous thoughts, that I have, even, thoughts.