What do I say? How can I say it? The rubbish pile I call home is too much for me. After sleeping on the same sheets for God knows how many months, I decided to change them. While doing so, I fell into a pile of “stuff” on J’s side of the bed. No harm done, physically, but there was an old hurt it aggravated.

“This house is not a home, at least not my home.”

I don’t live here, I merely exist here, but I can’t let myself breathe or relax or enjoy even the smallest pleasure. This is a place where my dreams die.

And so I must break the stranglehold on my creativity, my imagination. It sucks. It is daunting. The anger and hurt I feel from the alienation that characterizes this clutter, must go into what I write.

Crazy stories, dirty stories may come from me. As if ass-licking and sodomy were the embodiment of alienation. That wound of hurt offers no promise of healing.

Enough for now.