Dog days.
Re-reading old posts, I can watch myself prattle on from a safe distance. Searching for the thoughts that shaped each one. Wondering how I managed to find so many 10-cent words in so few days, months. Reliving exoteric moments that may, perhaps, have been better left in a pocket next to a cigarette butt and a few forgotten coins. Reflecting on the agonizing crusade that is the eternal search for my muse. So many paragraphs devoted to the seeking rather than the doing. So, you know, fuck it after all these years. What if, instead of laboring endlessly to create, I turn my efforts back towards the creator?

I'm in my closet and I'm throwing away years, stasis bleeding out minute by minute from the dusty corners. Tweener hats, dusty handbags, blouses that barely covered me but exposed little. Shoes that no longer welcome my feet. Well-stuffed grocery sacks are piling up in the hallway. I'm seeing clearly that I'll only ever be a size 6 in pictures, and that anything not covered in pale, beige pug hair has no place here. I want to be only moderately involved in that which precedes this clean and well-lighted place in my life. Surrounded by the chaos of my past, I am ruled by it as well. I can't breathe under the weight of it. My encumbered soul needs a clearance sale.

Everything must go.