A while a go — not that long, just a week or two or maybe eight or ten days go ahead and pick one because it doesn’t matter — I was walking to school in the cold overcast early morning and I was overcome by the grey the loneliness and maybe “Bankrupt on Selling” by Modest Mouse was playing and maybe these circumstances combined into some indomitable force of sadness capable of — no, not merely capable, but necessarily — thrusting me into the throes of despair: where weeping or preperatory to an emotional outburst pausing midstride and staring up at the gloom overhead or staring fixedly at nothing in particular to avoid seeing anything, anything, anything that matters or has practical meaning, some mark of progress through the day. But I walked on.
The acme of vanity is made manifest through self-portraiture, but I’ll gladly feign vanity for the sake of faked sanity. Maybe I’ll try to do a drawing people will like next time. Something with animals and violence and maybe some smugly pessimistic words scrawled across the chickensketch and I’ll sit back and say, “Yes, yes, yes, life certainly is fine and grand and I can surely stand another couple decades of this.” Because right there before my very eyes are some animals I drew and they’re saying or thinking or doing something I said or thought or did and I’ll know that there’s no such thing as loneliness and there’s no such thing as then or when but only now.