On nerves and slow time

Paul_Cézanne,_Pyramid_of_Skulls,_c._1901

Nervous. Letting everything mean something, even the things that don’t mean anything. That’s it: nerves make me superstitious. I start to add things together that don’t make real equations. I become a little mad. A little more mad I mean. Time becomes weighted. Silence gets meaning.

I am lying in wait for something to happen. I don’t like it. I can do nothing about it. The present oozes through my fingers like jam, gloppy with thick minutes that take forever.

Serenity is inversely proportional to expectations. The higher my expectations, the lower my serenity. When I want shit to happen my way, I am usually not happy with the outcome. The other factor in my serenity is acceptance. Serenity is proportional to acceptance. The more apt I am to accept the outcome of situations, the more serene I am.

Right now, I have very high expectations. I feel everything must happen in a certain order and a certain way for me to be happy. And I am not happy with the time frame in which nonevents are taking place, or to say it more plainly, in which nothing is happening.

I am driving myself mad. No one is doing it to me, because I’m playing all by myself. Cray-Cray, party of one. Cray-Cray, your table is ready.

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