late november and the bad mood comes from inside but the culprit is external: the end of the year looming and still nothing shareable on my google drive. got a good paragraph written yesterday, what a pathetic victory. I try to explain the hollow endless black feeling to a. but I falter and dig the pit deeper, end up irritable and accusing. oh, there’s no one who understands the pressure, or I guess there are others out there who would but those writers aren't interested in me, or they’re flawed in some probably-imagined way that piques the paranoid. I'm on my back on the couch, a. in the armchair. I'm puking my anxieties into the air, hoping they'll drift toward the ceiling but of course they rain back down on me. I’m not stupid—I know I’m creating my own misery.
© 2024 kate elizabeth russell
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