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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/profile/blog/ripglaedr3/day/12-8-2025
Rated: 18+ · Book · Writing · #2350960

Is just bored. No goals or motivation. I get one conversation a day, coffee, two naps.

I’ve never stopped learning, counter-intuitive when evidence doesn't present. Kindness is not indicative of vulnerability and responses…why am I typing about this? I talk circles around myself, too. If I could type faster with fewer errors, I’d make more sense…foremost, to myself.

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A lifelong journalist, my first word at 1 was to report an injury by describing the event to the woman in the basement doing laundry. “Hot.” I fell and hit my head on the radiator. I never got good at nouns or pronouns. I know faces, voices, general demeanor. I don’t like hello or goodbye. ‘See ya when I see ya’ would suffice. I prefer nothing at all, not acknowledge. Part of my PTSD is from abandonment that found new ways to apply itself throughout life. Lots of hot radiators in the world make me feel unsafe.

I might be Sundowning. We’ll see. There are gaps of lost time in the last year. I pulled my blogs and writing. I seldom recognize anything written in the last decade. And, like a tap, words drip out onto the lighted screen we share through the statistical tunnel. Trying not to let language skills diminish. My eyesight has recently given me bouts of double vision. My reading and editing and reviewing suffer. I basically open a tap. Store some of the better stuff to mete out as I blog, giving each my best attention. Lots more boring stuff.

More later…to create?
December 8, 2025 at 11:19am
December 8, 2025 at 11:19am
#1103224
The moment the gently placed needle landed to skate grooves around the record, an analog memory electrified stereophonic. She appeared again, 17, in his bedroom, a holographic memory he wished gone to replace time past that left a growing distance between them.

                     💔


T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚           


From, “Heart Chasing The Moon”
an as yet poem, story or novel attempting to skirt the cliche, reenvision a love lost, rekindle a warm glowing remembrance.

There are no do-overs as there are no time machines; and yet, we invent fantasy to sate delusion, immerse in illusion and sentimentally romanticize a time when dreams were conceivable goals, rather than darkening reality — stars you will never touch.


Replacing me with me with AI, b4 AI replaces me with me…with itself…b4…??


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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/profile/blog/ripglaedr3/day/12-8-2025