New World (Part 6) – A Poetry Journal

2-16-22 – 9:52 a.m.

A dog barking in the distance in the middle of the night. A creaky door opening and closing. Soft, cold wind. A dark, moonless sky. Up in the twilight hours, this is what nightmares are made of. Calm before a storm. Before the attack, always imagined but never happens. Make sure all the doors are locked. I’m home alone and, though my mental health is good, fear runs below the surface.

She’s in Texas visiting a friend; I miss her. Yet, the alone time is nice. The dog and cat are my companions. Reading A Scanner Darkly. Also, reading about the spirituality of time, ancestors, and other things. Work is going okay. Constantly fighting imposter syndrome. I want to take better care of myself, but I have many bad habits. My tendency for self-improvement has left. I’m not sure how to get that drive back.

Addiction is a terrible thing. If you rounded up all the addicts in the world, we’d be a force to be reckoned with. Instead, most of us suffer in the shadows. AA insists on being anonymous; I believe that hurts us. It creates a political quietism that keeps us from demanding changes in society that would help addicts. We gather in church basements, talk of a God that gets us parking spots, and some of us feel better. Others die this way. It’s all an illusion.

I want to read Schopenhauer. He was the most depressing of all the philosophers. From what I’ve read, he was also a realist. Pessimist, yes. But there was truth to the things he said. Underneath the surface, there are things we don’t address. They accumulate until individual lives fall apart. Or, more likely, we trudge through life in quiet desperation. We are never satisfied.

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