It's wearying, really.
Where does one quit? This journey of self-examination or self-exploration or self-analysis or self-flagellation or self-aggrandizement or self-defeat or self-whatnot? Do you stop when you get to a level of something that you can live with? Do you stop at all?
I feel like stopping right here. I don't feel like playing anymore. I don't feel like learning anything more about myself or taking inventory of what I did yesterday or today or ten years ago or whenever. I don't care, or well, I do but I don't want to care as much as I do.
Granted I care a lot less. It's not so much a question of not giving a fuck as being more comfortable just being me so that's saying something, but I'm really weary of putting in the work, even if there are more than a few people who would say I need to try a little bit harder.
Or a lot.
It may appear in the photo above that I am looking skyward in defeat or supplication, like maybe I'm surrendering finally and looking to the heavens above for succor.
I'm offering you my throat to do what you will. You can't hurt me.
You can't hurt me.
Six years and ten months today. Lucky Seven around the corner.