Published by Open Love Letter


"An open love letter:


So here I am      (once again)
speaking for myself in the bleak hope that there is somebody that feels the same.

I've been waking up later than I normally would, threatening my body with more coffee than it needs. CUP, cup, cup, cup; all this useless energy & a list of (unfinished/(unstarted)) ventures laid out in front of me as a mess of wires, a finger tap, a half-dreamed body pulled to shore, unable to ask but begging to breathe.

INCESSANTLY I've reviewed my options, but it seems I just wait for the kettle to boil while trying to decide which luxury should take precedent. I had every opportunity to be more prepared this free FUCKING time & now, overwhelmed by its abundance, I have become that half-drowned body. Curled up on the sofa, swallowing crisps & self loathing in the same mouthful.

The PRIVILEGE; to feel this safety amidst the world's disorder. I have time, space & facility YET the wires are still a mess & my fingers grow tired & sore of my own excuses.

Learning everything I thought I already knew: the harder you pull, the tighter the knot. You have to unpick carefully, you have to think smart; maybe you just aren't smart or careful enough(?!); maybe if you could stop thinking about what you are not (!!??), you might actually finish something(!!!???).

Masurbate ---> call it self care
                                               -------> no less disappointing but helps w/ the guilt.

It becomes late enough in the day to reward your nothingness w/ beer
------> call it a break. 

is this why so many famous authors are alcoholics? Did they just wank until they could drink & then drink until they were famous? Then suddenly they're dead but very rich, horrible company, entitled & abusive but all of that overshadowed by the weight of their GENIUS
                                                                                                       --- fuck you Fitzgerald,
                                                                                                        fuck you Hemingway --- 
and all of a sudden I find myself suddenly chastising dead men because I cannot create myself. I start to fall into similar routines (dangerous), abusing the self instead of others (horrible company), no genius to speak of but a penchant for punishment & a brain like a bullwhip.
                                                                                masturbate again --- finally, something I can finish. 
With a new sense of purpose & confidence after than One Beer Treat inevitably turned into four, I had started to map out the following day with military precision, a STRIKE FORCE of EFFICIENCY:

You're going to write an album in three days, take 20 minute mindfulness breaks every hour, quit smoking, do a water cleanse, get fucking RiPpEd, shrink down to microbial size & beat the SHIT into covid-19 for forcing you to miss your Grandpa's funeral.
  • I wakeup on the sofa at 3am & drag my dribbling, drunk ass to bed.
  • I feel that I am going to have to learn to love myself (in isolation((not just masturbation)) before I write of it to anyone else.
Ffin x"