The honest terror, felt by many, felt by most, of losing one’s income, exhausting one’s meager savings, becoming destitute, going insane. The thin skin holding things together breaks and it all comes spilling out, the miracles of life along with vulgar, filthy, toxic, stinky shit. Facing an inevitable end of misery and shame, alive among the dead, wanting something more than pain.

The horror overwhelms, and the best thing, the only thing, is to look outward, find distraction, or fall into the luxury of masturbatory solipsism, the reality that one can feel good when surrendering to a dream.

I got the opportunity to be myself, I can say that. Though I didn't do much with it beyond observe the madness, cruelty and wonder of it all, beyond fall in love and lose myself in beauty whenever possible, living in the moment like a fool.

What I want is sex and ease, nothing to do but lounge around in bed, potter at home, wander the streets and spend time in cafés and bars, losing myself in intoxicants, experiences and books, without a care for the future or past.

 I thought books would shield me from the world, but perhaps they led me astray.

I live in the light and shadow of my death, certain that each moment is either to be felt most vividly or all self lost in flow. So I move between the two states, entirely here or wholly absent, leaving no trace on the world

There’s the worlds inside and out, and ever since I can remember I’ve tried to master the inner while neglecting the latter, because it never seemed real to me, not as real as the world that I felt.

I embrace Daoist / Zen simplicity through material and mental poverty, my natural inclinations, rather any great study of the topic. To reduce requirements and encumbrances, to get lost in the moment, to enjoy a cup of tea, a glass of water, just breathing in and out, in and out, and feeling the joy from within.

In this way I cut myself off from the world.

The feeling is the thing, and I get as much pleasure from a good stretch as others find in Paris, as easily satisfied as a tree.

We spend time together but don't talk about our poverty and failure, lack of property, status and hope, even though it obsesses us and impacts every aspect of our lives. This is just how things are, or seem to be, and they will never change.

You think it'll be OK, and then remember all the stories of madness, suicide, ruin and despair that happened to real people, like yourself, and there's no reason not to imagine a terrible end of your own, no reason for it not to really happen.

And at the same time, over the same years, I become bitter, celebrating the losses of others as some great leveller, while still nurturing a fantasy that something will change for the better in my own life, that in the end it turns out well for us all.

I know nothing, can do nothing, help no one, and can't explain what I did with my life.

Another morning waking up with a sore head and wondering how much is left in the bottle, if this can really last forever.