2017. Not good.
Listen to snatches of old songs, but the emotions – the taste of the wind in my hair – is gone. Does the music reassure or does it serve to goad? Self-obsessed but not self-aware. Trying to find solace in small insignificant details because even the slightest taste of the Big Picture overwhelms me with its irrevocable unchangeable movement. I am too tired to write poetry. Always tired. I laugh sometimes. I cry something. The smile rarely stays on my lips. Words are left unwritten. I have been playing the same two or three mindless computer games, 24/7 for a year now. Too frightened to move, but move I will be forced to. I cannot write poetry.
Don’t go back and change, always go back and change.
There is no song for this day.