Oh Hush, You Know Nobody's Really Reading These Anyway, Plus We're All Going To Die In The End

Dear K,

Oh hush. Also if anyone deserves to be read it's you. You're one of the great secret writers of our generation. Do you know that? I mean beyond your inevitable claims that you're terrible. We both know you're very good at making things and writing things and feeling things. You wouldn't like to do these things if you didn't find some sort of pride in them, and you wouldn't have some sort of pride if you weren't sure you were good. I think you're good enough to know how much better you could be and that is a thing that will cripple you.

That's one of the demons I tried to pickle with whiskey.

I've spent all week in bed with a fever. Well I went to work yesterday and today, but those eight hours and my commute were the only time I've spent outside of bed. Okay, I've also taken a lot of showers and baths. But you get the picture. I haven't had any sort of appetite for about five days. As I write this it's a Wednesday night.  I came down with my fever on a Saturday afternoon. Its been a great reminder of mortality and how actually flimsy our lives our.

More importantly I haven't written very much in the last five days and that upsets me. My standards are pretty low. When I say I wrote a lot I mean a page or two. Usually I satisfy myself with a paragraph or three. I'm training myself to sit still at the keyboard again. It's a good thing to train yourself to do. I think I'd like to spend the rest of my life training myself to sit still and type. Someday I imagine I'll be very productive.

What's it all for though? You know? What's the point? We die in the end. This planet will blow up, and nobody will even remember that our sun was our sun. Some days this fact makes things lighter, and some days this fact makes things heavier.

Lost in a fever dream and Nihilism Lite,

K