Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to. Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju.Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to. Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. Earth to Juju. 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She didn't want to write about herself. Her fingers hesitated above the keys. She felt a welling of anxiety in her chest as she brought them down to type it out: She didn't want to write about herself.
She typed it out, and she read it. With an exhale, she leaned back in her chair, eyes searching the room for something more comfortable to do. But there was nothing. Those first few sentences were her toes in the pool, and tentatively she slid her body into the water.

Her problem was an unusual one. Or maybe a very average one. That was the problem: everything she thought about; every little conundrum; was too damn grey.

She contemplated the very idea of what she was doing. She had a solid thought about it, but it fled her mind. Then it came back. String of consciousness, she thought. And she decided narrating her inner monologue was a fair idea. Fair, not good. Monologue, not dialogue. Why those things?

This was why she took such pleasure in tangible things- things she could hold in her hands. Though perhaps pleasure wasn't the best word. It was more of a desperate solace, rather than comfort. Needless to say, tactile things were real and objective. That's why she enjoyed her snakes. They were simple and pretty. Small, deliberate predators, elegant in design and execution. No need for love, or pondering. Just mice. The boa in her shirt stirred.

When will my fear of existence ever cease?

Ever since Emma left me... I haven't been the same. I was so naive back then; love-clouded and dilly-dallying my time away, since I had a lifetime to procrastinate.
I believed all the shit– You get married, happily-ever-after happens, you have kids, suddenly you're middle-aged with grey hair.
But it doesn't matter because you come home to a cozy suburban nest, greeted by your wife, whose mouth is lined from smiling. The house smells like carpet, lavender, chicken soup, and her. Always has. She tells you about her phone conversation with Sam she had that day– How he aced his biology exam. you both smile and settle into the evening together. You're old now, but it's okay, because you don't care anymore.

That never happened to me.
Here I am.
Old.
Greyed. Even my pubes are salted and peppered now.

My sons and I relate like chums. Our relationship goes way back, back in the day. I'm also a life coach to them. Perhaps a lender occasionally. My pupils check in periodically, and they try to avoid mentioning their mother.
We laugh and catch up, but at the end of the day, we all go home. They go to their friends and roommates in college, and I go to my empty house.

My house has no feminine touch anymore. I mean, it makes sense, and I do like it. But it feels like something's missing. I guess our mothers spoiled us for a certain type of cozy.
I can't bring myself to buy any stupid nick-knacks. Those ceramic owls are not fucking worth 8 bucks. But every time I reach for the remote, I can't help but notice how bare that damn side table looks. I'm still not ready for an owl yet, though.
I guess it's kind of like an expired bachelor pad, maybe? Something about that just doesn't sit right. It's weird like the cat lady house, sans cats. It's full when you look at it, but it's just off. You don't want to admit it's because she's alone. Something smells funny. In my case it isn't the litter box, but the lack of any sorts of fabricated smells, I suppose. No incense or perfume. No candles. I smell my TV, the carpet, and my kitchen smells like a popcorn microwave. the bathroom has an ever-so-faint piss odor because I hate cleaning the toilet rim. It's a little gross I guess. But no cake smells, or flower smells. No doilies either. Emma had those under some decorative goodies. They seemed useless, but I can't help but notice how blunt some objects look without them, now. She had a little one she insisted upon putting the remote on. My remote has no doily to snuggle up with. The only affection it gets is my hand.

Oh well, though. I'm just talking into the breeze. I should go to bed now.

Leaves scuttle by feet
Wind breathes its secrets
Go, stupid people

Eric, you finally did it. You really did it this time. You have reached new levels of unmotivation. Why aren't you suicidal? Because you're too damn lazy to kill yourself. Real special guy right here, everyone.

It's funny seeing how this shitty sea we call life tosses me wherever the fuck it wants. I'm pretty sure the ebb tide is pulling me from everything I've ever loved. Friends feel like memories right now, memories feel like they require too much thinking. I cling to my hobbies because they can be done on autopilot. Even writing this feels like too much work. My faith? I can't even begin to think about that right now. Just like I can't even begin to think about school, or money, or love, or motivation, or bathing. I wake up and focus on the stupid dog all day because she's a time drain, and not me.

I know what I want in life, you know? I know what will make me feel alive, what will bring me joy and make me feel useful. Life is one giant project with a due date that's too easy to procrastinate on.

But as with every project I seem to encounter in life, I don't know where to begin. I can see the end painting. but I don't know what medium to use. Or where to paint it. Or what to start painting with.

I don't know what job I want. I don't know who I want to spend my life with. I don't know where I want to live. All I know is that I want to be there for a few people. I want my friends to stick by me. But I want to be there and willing to die for that nuclear family.

I’ve spent countless hours trying to
justify.
Wasted some good time wondering why.
Pondering what made you change your mind,
and whether it’s fair to say you’ve been unkind.

But I got some peace knowing
It’s a common trouble of youth,
And my feelings towards you won’t

Always be so uncouth.

No one ever learns what they need
‘til it’s lost.
And I suppose it’s a blessing

To be spared that cost.

Was it that my motivation came too late?
Or maybe I’m just a hopeless puppet of fate?

I don’t like knowing it’s done.

At least what little was there was lived in my head,
and fun.
Now I know next time you’re in my life
To give it a go before it passes me by.

I pray that it may be less of a loss and more relief.
Let yourself take comfort for I've finally found my sleep.
A time has come where there is nothing left to be,
A conscience softly drifting and a soul has been released.
You feel respect must be payed and your heart is torn.
But let me decompose, I've been well-used and worn.

When you lay me down,
I hope for celebration, and not sorrow.
I have said my goodbye, but for you there's still tomorrow.
Do not waste your kind tears on my fading memory.
The past has been forgotten by the universe, like me.

When they lay me down,
Give thanks that I had life.
And then give thanks again,
For you still have yours.

I think I have found the answer to life. It is "gray".