#insomnia diary

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and buy “This Clumsy Living” by Bob Hicok and read his every single word. I am so jealous of this man’s brain, his poems are breathtaking. I would love to be able to write a poem as lovely as Hicok’s “Switching to Deer Time.” I sincerely encourage you (whoever you are) to check out his work and fall in love.

I... can't sleep. It's almost 4 a.m., and I have things to do later. A lot. And I can't sleep... (and also, the montage of my two last recorded videos is impossible. The result is shitty. I don't know what to do anymore...) ,•_•, It does still amaze me a lot how just a little thing, like something that I have to do that goes out of the way I live an actual day, like a meeting, even for less than an hour, with someone, or an appointment at the dentist, or some "stupid" stuff like this, can stress me and make me in a perpetual state of anxiety until the thing is done, and then, I am here, with nothing left to do, and instead of breathing, I am like, "yah know that wasn't so hard... It's done. Yeah, it's done. OH MY GOD IT'S DONE. FUCKING TIME HAS PASSED. WHAT AM I DOING? WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?! Why did that stress me so much? 'Cause I will die one day, this is not so important! This is stupid to be each time in an awful state for something as easy, as "normal", as this little things. FUCK. I WILL DIE. OH NO, I WILL FUCKING DIE ONE DAY. AND EVERY SECOND THAT PASSED SEND ME TO DEATH. AND THERE WILL BE NOTHING LEFT. SHIT. SHIT. SHIT!!" And like that, again and again. For, apparently, the big majority of subjects that cross my lovely brain. This is a vicious circle. Really. And you know, there are so many memories, sincerely important ones, that I would like to remember well, to feel, like when it happened. But instead, I forget. I can't feel them enough, the good ones. And there are, stuck in my head, the stupid little things, for example, the sentence that someone said to me, even someone I don't really care, you know, and their look, that kind of despising look, haunting me, then, the fact that I could have done something else, something better, and the sentance goes endlessly in my head, always the same fucking sentance, and I feel crazy, bad, sad, guilty, I speak to those "shadows of the past", but I am alone, nobody is here. There is only this one sentance, again and again, screaming in my head. Nonstop. Nonstop. Nonstop...

--- Bob Hicok, from “Bottom of the ocean,” Insomnia Diary

Bob Hicock