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Of finding something again

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I just sleep. I sleep to rest, to be away from the world that has given me so much and that I am not a part of anyway, to reset, to die. If only for a while.  I wake up and look at my phone, as all of us do now. The world painfully worlds, with no pauses and preambles: it elbows you in the face with all its glory, its vapid bitches, and all the iterations of the Andrew Tates of humankind. In everything we have a choice, save for one: this world. It is the ultimate given, the ultimate, ungentle, fact, and that we are in it. It doesn't stop. It can't; it doesn't have to. Immediately upon waking I close my eyes and dive deep into the recesses of whatever that was young that's left of me to desperately hunt for reserves of a desire to get up from bed, to work, to be . Two days ago I joked with my lover that I had been tired since 1984, and I think I mean it.  If not for him and another friend that gave me the time of the day in the MMORPG that I returned to, I would have ro...
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Homeless

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  I moved from my hometown to be with someone from another place, and I have spent two New Year's celebrations here. The decision to move was not carefully thought out. I rarely think life through, since I spend most of it dissociated, romanticizing my battles, or just being a human being no one can be proud of. My mother and sister were, when I was at a prestigious university pursuing my PhD and teaching, but I believe my other decisions far outweighed their pride and eventually they just - were there. I chose to be at a work from home job when dealing with people became too much, and have continued to feel never good enough for anyone in my family, my few friends, or the world at large. Sometimes I just put it in the back of my mind and pay bills and debts, sometimes, in the dark teatime of the soul, I just sleep with my uselessness as my last conscious thought.  It's the first day of the new year, and since I just turned 43, I found myself thinking about what I have become....
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Echo: Chapter 4

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  What I ended up asking Bjørn, however, was simply the complete opposite of a home: I asked about his oldest brother that he frequently calls an idiotic man-child: Didrik. I suppose I should actually use his name, the poor bastard. The question was an innocent accident, I will maintain. He texted me after having had a football game with his mates, full of testosterone from making the game-winning goal, and, perhaps not quite knowing what to do with the extra hormones rampaging to about six feet from his personal space, he turned the joy of victory into the despair of aggression. The end result of doing this was as masterful as a Katana-kaji forging a Nihonto, and equally, if not more, deadly. It was quite a sight. So intense was his aversion for everything that his brother is, and blatantly continues to be, that Bjørn, with the rare ability to sublimate a love for a game into a hatred for his brother, told me what Didrik told him once: that “football is the best metaphor for h...
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