On it is a trolls trove of goodies, including a wondrous inka-dinka-linka-doo to a comics creator, where I concocted the above ode to my current state of inertia.
I also found a link to a deliciously useful color pallete generator, where I got the pixelated rainbow of diffused pastels used in this newest incarnation of Demented Tids.
It's a neat toy for the color crazed and should appeal to all my fellow pantone-a-holics.
I've been in a dark state lately, depressed and melancholic. Sometimes that Grimm forest is lit up with an flickering manic star. Sometimes not. Often not. Often knot.
In six weeks or so, I will be 35 years old.
I work in an herb shop, in some kind of sickening reversal of the life I want.
I want to live a life where I am emplyed doing something that fills me up and let's me spill my noodle and ticker on something daring and dreamy. Productive and positive. Lucrative and luscious. I'd like my work time to be busy and inspiring and my down time to be relaxed and restorative. Instead, I spend most of my days staring out the window wondering when my life will begin and then go home weary, straight to bed and sorrow and on to-morrow for a repeat of the prior prank of the gods.
So much time, wasted in the quagmire of my own wavering will. Pitching New Age Slop to old aged hippies. What a genuine bore.
My quicksand in the hourglass uptime is spent earning just enough to stay broke and my quickly usurped down time is spent racing around like a chicken with his head cut off to get things done, mostly menial and draining.
Like laundry and visits to the DMV.
Pepper in some fitful naps and rageful tears and much time spent thinking that I am dying of some horrible illness.
I keep posting about how I am going to climb out of the dark and then I don't do it.
I am even boring myself.
To tears. To tears. To tears.
Perhaps those tears will create an ocean, and I will climb up on the boat of my bootstraps and sail into a place far from this pain.
"Snap out of it", you say?
"Just do it", you say?
"Get on with it boy", you say?
A clear voice, clearly coming from a who?
A who, who has obviously never stood as I have in a pool of their own mothers blood, waving goodbye to his father as the old man was whisked away by an evil Hunter intent on having her cake all for herself.
A friend, a hero, a daddy kidnapped and wrapped ever tight in the yesteryear rug that was just freshly pulled from beneath your feet.
“If you are a dreamer,come
in. If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hoper, a prayer, a
magic-bean-buyer. If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire, for we
have some flax-golden tales to spin. Come in! Come in!”