"I tend to underestimate my average"

And every night, no matter how tired, I walk outside and have a smoke and listen on headphones to some MC bleed out his struggle and biography and look at the sad stars circumspect over my doleful neighborhood. Hope that I can somehow get riled up about life in general. The myriad lights of entanglement reflecting off the slippery backs of leaves and the tenacity of aluminum siding. For several dark and crystalline moments become this solitary impermanent thing and always, always always realize some fragmented -oid about the hole in my chest or the simmering frustration underneath my clothes or the geometric latticework of words on paper. And in all honesty my day is subtle agony, the pins and needles in my legs from straining to pay attention to details, maintain the facade of assimilation or resist the urge to push something off my desk that'll spasm in blown circuitry and end it forever. And just as humbly, the downtime often seems absurd. The dirty square footage of mine a cell monastic and penitentiary, obscene red walls screaming. . .

And subtle encouragements vector in on me from all sides. Like I've either drastically dismissed my abilities or there is some conspiratorial effort within the system to keep me buoyed up. Always followed by the sense that I did not try hard enough, that if I'd really done my best everything I've ever wanted would materialize in my hand like ectoplasm and I, myself, would shatter into stain-glass and be embedded into everything. This Pavlovian urge that I must earn every single inch I'm given, or else be complicit in th e plundering that has proceeded since Cro-magnon first duped Neandertal.