Good morning

To preface: I hadn’t slept in at least 2 full nights,and am pretty positive I disassociated early in the week. I had, for…reasons…been thinking about the meaning of life, to a point that I was as far as writing about it last night. The quotes are both screenshots I took last night, not pictured were a screen of Christian’s in the world and how much of the planet trees cover. Yes,that, verbatim, was my search “percentage of earth trees cover”, I guess my search proved bountiful.The answers were, 30B and 31% (Sq miles), respectfully. It is funny, that without a thought, Google’s first result became fact to me. I didn’t look at the URL before it was factual. It was statista, and had that been my findings for the first question, I would research further as the worldwide Christian statistics should be confirmed by a website that on blurred vision doesn’t read like a specific piece of Nazi propaganda. Lastly; I sleep with the earplugs, and mask on. The ghetto sleep pod: 3000! The bottle of Tito’s is simply for scale. It is barely 9am and you couldn’t resist my rabbit hole due to the f’n 1.5L handle of Tito’s? One of us should seek help. It is not me.

I’m going to run out of space for sure. So, I must’ve woke up like 80%, at 8:01, and I’m having a kind of waking nightmare that’s pouring gasoline on the fire of my imagination (insanity?). I was, to a point where I was a passenger on a plane, something not quite lucid enough to be tangible to clearly identify. It was somewhere which I was aware that this was a minuscule possibility. To a point that I was still immobile, my watch vibrated,I put it on do not disturb before feeling dog fur brush against, what I’m figuring out in real time, my exposed foot, and follow with 1 lick. Somehow, I went to the reason I hadn’t gotten up was because there were nefarious things afoot. I remove an earplug (only realized in that moment), I conclude that the fur could’ve only been of, likely, a German shepherd fur type (rather than short bully haired), meaning authorities, or at the least military…I think about possibly using SOS on the watch face, but I make the executive decision to first investigate. I remove the covers…And there is Dito waiting for breakfast with, like. 0003% of the answers I had been searching for.

Obviously, from the photos last night,I was on a solo sleep deprived adventure. Who needs relationships, interpretable closure, friends, sobriety, or sanity when your mind is working out everything in REM? I’m sure that a part of my sleep mind was, in part, influenced by picking up every single dog toy that exists, at least 3X daily. I’ve never seen another dog act like Dito does. Like his”why” is absolutely to make sure the dog toys do not remain his toy pen. To the point where because he’s big and goofy, he annoyed Cash to the point Cash was done. He went and herded him back, immediately. Talk about a micromanager. The images, I’m sure play part in the subconscious state. It’s been 37 minutes since then. Before you send them to lock me away in a padded room, I think, factually (I googled it) that spending the first 37 minutes on a Sunday morning putting the mystery together, is healthier for anyone than spending 37 minutes of a Sunday morning clicking on a handle of Tito’s, and reading for 4 minutes the essentially journal entries of a self aware madman. I just want that to be known! This, in no small part must also have to do with the lack of having to explain things in an appropriate way that someone, whose native language is not English, would be able to understand. I wrote it, and I’m positive I don’t. That, and realizing that, I became complacent in my explanations, which, in itself wouldn’t have been catastrophic. It was me being completely oblivious that I had for months, that was more an issue.

The last picture of Dito was taken at 8:02. I was taking too long, he was simply…prepared. Hmm. I would prefer my wild state of finding a baseline over counting on what was recently learned in post, way too late to do anything of significance, that I had been disappearing into a reclusive state using an unreliable narrator as a means of baseline. I would take being wrong, even being wrong in an absolute sense, to knowing that, all I know for sure is that whatever I understood was almost certainly not right. Even during the timeline, making my memories also, an unreliable narrator.

I can handle anyone’s questions about all my morning and short story had within them. I cannot, however account and react accordingly to you not reading more than the first 3 words before zoning out and not paying much attention (I mean, Tito’s). While I’ve settled that you’ve read it, understand it, comprehended it, and in the case that I am incapable, could explain it without rereading it. Believe me,I’m the first to claim an awfully small attention span and a really ”outside the box” everything. It’s the ether between the lines. The place where I wasn’t diligent enough, in giving the responsibility to someone who is somewhere, way fucking elsewhere. The amount that I credited, which was almost entirely my projections, in such an absolute rather than the appropriate, indifferent way I had. On the other end, she spent all this time listening to me, and I know, I AM A LOT, playing a soundtrack that coupled with omissions and deception,was years of white noise on a similar octave to my voice deep,real deep, in her subconscious. So, I’m counting on being told something wasn’t understood, from someone who found, her existence, over years, acceptable. I am annoyed thinking about the sound of my voice and am fully aware the damage it can make playing on a subconscious level. It’s hard to overcome the knowledge that there’s something I don’t know, that, regardless of anything possible, I cannot obtain any clarity on. Letting that die, knowing it is doing so through suffering, and having to force my indifference to what amounts to years of my, everything. That is a jagged pill. ”I’m 37!” Couldn’t resist the quote.

I’m unsure if it’s a good or troubling place to find a bit of solace than in the questioning of one’s own sanity. Oh, my sweet creativity; why must we always meet in only my darkest corners like we do? At least now I can see, clearly, that I won’t allow anything to keep me from guilt. At least my need for attention is, at best, passive and minimal. It turns out, the peace and happiness I finally found, it didn’t exist in sanity. Maybe that’s the biggest revelation for me.