I don’t know if I like sitting in a pile of muck or what. Why I like looking at chaos around me instead of getting up and putting it into order. I don’t like the sight before me. I don’t want to look at it, but that’s what I do. I look at it. I just look at it, and I wish it wasn’t there. I know very well that I could probably get rid of it if I did something about it, but I just leave it there, and look at it, and wish it wasn’t there, and lament it’s existence before me. This isn’t something I want to do, and at the same time I do it I chastize myself for doing it, for being like that, for just looking when I can do something.

I can blame others. I really can. I can blame others and give good reasons, but that makes me irrelevant. As if all of what I am has nothing to do with me and everything with them. They’re to blame for all of this mess and none of it’s me. But some of it is me. A lot of it is me. Because I can do something about it, but I just stand still and look. And I don’t know why I do that. It’s not like the view is any good.

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