The stairway to heaven (highway to hell).

 

This piece of writing is a warm-up, trying to feel out the language I need to express my intuition. I hate myself as I see myself (a series of compulsions.) The algorithm that is me is also afraid to get the hope that it has anything to tell. Any stories in the twisted and scarred gnarly territory I call my mind. But since I was little, I have had this compulsion—this need to see shapes in time. To see the arc of a narrative when none is readily apparent. This compulsion is my frustration. This compulsion is an utter pleasure.

 

I have had some broken teeth pulled, and not being in absolute pain every waking moment is a joy. I can't chew much and will need dentures in the next five to ten years. But this is the cost of being alive, or at least living badly and being lucky enough not to die.

 

I have been thinking about my situation more as I have become increasingly reclusive in how I live. While I also stress more about wanting to be a published writer.

 

I may or may not have started submitting writing to agents and publishers...(some ambiguities must be treasured.) But, I also have an inspection of my apartment building coming up. Unsure of if I will be homeless in the next few weeks, I have had a hard time working on the new book. I can already see the failings of the piece. But also do quite enjoy what I have written (at times) so far.

 

As you can tell from how awkward and compulsively repetitive, this is. I am a bit discombobulated. Trying to will myself to pretend I have somewhere to go and a future to look forward to. But melodrama, while having its place, I think, is not the answer tonight. Instead, I am focusing on getting ready to mop the floors and will probably be listening to ac/dc highway to hell while doing it.