I never stopped, but my drinking tendencies have increased in amount and tendency. I think the reasons to drink have increased in my life, the wheel of existence. Things have been better in some ways, but I feel less fulfilled then ever. The imminent doom aspect has wavered and the existential dread and depression has crept in. I have time to assess my life now that I don’t have to worry about when I’m eating next. Drinking exacerbates and amplifies that line of thinking.

I don’t even want to be here wallowing in it, bitching about it. It pains me to even know I’m being a whiny about it. I don’t even know what to do next, how, where, what. Does this even make sense? A year ago it was chivalrous to get drunk and write. Lately nothing has come of it that I feel is of any worth or longevity. I feel it’s just bitchy. I’m not fighting any direct and simple battle or enemy anymore, it’s a longer journey and it’s a total war I don’t see any tactic or end in sight to see it out on top. It makes it difficult to really do anything creative and feel as though I’m not diluting the airwaves and avenues with trash. The feeling that you’re just putting more crap out and filling people’s eyes and ears and minds with yet another thing. Putting out music in a world where anyone can put out a shitty song. A world where anyone can take a picture, paint a picture or write a piece of music and call it art. We live in a time where anyone can write a fire-starter of a book and mass produce it. These content mills are ruining the world. But on the flip side, I’ve been able to create by it. My point is that I’m starting to realize I’m one of them. How can I not begin to accept I’m simply part of the trash? Part of the problem? Part of the over-saturation? I am part of it. I’m not doing anything new. Everything I’m capable of has been done. Perhaps that’s fatalistic.

Perhaps I’m drunk.