I haven't written any fiction in a month... two months? Haven't written any non-fiction either. I'm still dancing with a pencil point. I talk to myself a lot. I think of everything at the same time. In my mind I see implosions. Nothing is reasonable; our backs are against the wall, at polar extremes.

Crap. If I could draw something half as nice as Lucky Star I'd be happy. Oh wait. Happiness doesn't exist in this world. All we have are the icons, the glimpses, the promises and reminders and the faith of the saints. So why am I still here, pretending that it is attainable? To attain happiness one must first leave this world, to ascend like Enoch or Elijah, to escalate.

It's because of people that I came here. It's because of them that I'm still here, I suppose. I'm not grateful enough to them.

It seems useless, doesn't it? This resistance we show? Please, can we as the human race collectively say that we give up?

In the words of the band Earthsuit:

Constraints, why do you seize us? Just give me Jesus
I`ll be free in this unruly world
Nowhere to hide, I`m going untied

[From the song Against The Grain]

All the things people do seem like exercise or bad habits. Rote traditions. If we were honest with ourselves... we might... but we aren't.

The experts and the sages say, "The world is ending." Fair enough, I say. But then that makes me one of them, a false prophet with a book to sell, a message to shill, a protest to make. I'd walk around the block a few times, gauge the gaze of the gathered cameras, and then retreat. So I hide in the shelter of your wings, in the shelter of my hikikomori ways.

"It's not too late--" Why, yes. Yes it is.