No inspiration
NO INSPIRATION.
I don’t feel bad. I feel good.
Full of energy. I’m not sick.
The mood, the weather, the events are extremely positive, I just have to rely on everything.
There is no creator. The muse disappeared without bothering to collect her things. Books are not read: I ignore Dostoevsky, and the contents of “Neiroleptics” ignore me. Movies don’t look good: even Almadovre and von Trier couldn’t overcome my
yawn. Well, no texts have been written for about three months. No suffering. No hemorrhoids. No fear, no regrets.
What kind of condition is this? New. I don’t know when it was. I don’t think so. I’m getting used to it.
To the good. To idleness. Besides, it’s just like that)) Simple, everything is simple.
It is not time that heals, but the psyche itself. She never checks her decisions against some kind of watch. If we are lazy to work on ourselves, then she works the night shift for us, orchestrating a way out for our pain while we sleep.
The perspective of an event becomes clearer in retrospect. And in vain we strained ourselves for hours, trying to unravel the meaning of something that, perhaps, would happen in a minute, or maybe only next year.
