Will

"A man can be broken and still be undefeated," said Ernest Hemingway.  

Later on, he shot himself in the head with a shotgun.  He was sixty-one.

Don't believe everything you read.  Then again, Hemingway wasn't speaking of himself when he wrote that.  It might have read, "Other men can be broken and still be undefeated."  But that just ain't such great literature.  

I had a moment yesterday when I felt almost happy, but it didn't last.  I hardly slept last night.  I can't figure out why everyone is so big on CBD as a pain medicine.  That shit does nothing for me.  It doesn't help me sleep, either.  

I can't keep up with all I need to do any longer.  The car, the house, my body. . . .  I'm certain my mind is going, too.  I'm just running out of road.  

My will to do a thing is gone.  What "thing"?  Just about anything.  Another bout of paralytic catatonia has overtaken me.  

If I was going on a trip to Japan with my neighbors in June, I needed to pay by Sunday night.  I couldn't commit to it.  My life is not my own.  

I pretend that if I had a studio, things would be fine.  But I won't have a studio, so yesterday I went to the art supply store.  I had an idea that was making me feel I might be productive.  I spent almost a hundred dollars on supplies. . . that I will probably never use.  When I got the material home, I didn't feel the fire anymore.  

I would like to go back to bed for the rest of the day, but the maids are coming.  I need to launder the sheets, but I am out of detergent.  I have much to pick up and put away.  The roofing company is asking what day I would like to have them come.  They want half their money.  I've not done my taxes yet.  I'll have to take time tomorrow for that.  The power steering is out on my Xterra and I need to take it in. That means I will be without a car for some time.  Something has died under the house again.  I could smell it while I slept.  

I shouldn't write, I know.  But I wanted to post the picture. I liked its ghostly ways.