Wednesday, April 27th, 2022

Location: The Den of my Reluctant Descent

I'm sitting at the kitchen table in my apartment. The same kitchen table that all three of my computers has etched a bubbling radiation burn onto the deep brown oak from to frequent use.

My mood: fried

I have been working and unworking diligently since my last entry. Dilligently, adamatly, begrudgingly and, frankly, on the fumes of freshly baked loaves and pate.

When I say working, I really mean working at my day-job, turned day-and-night-job, but I could really use a hand-job.

I last wrote on, what, Sunday? Since then I've mostly holed myself up in my apartment to feed every last bit of my energy into those things I swore I would find a balance for in my exile. I have been out, but mostly to the same places, or different places if you count a paltry 3km radius of "unknown". I was about to list off where I've been the last few days, but I don't remember a damn thing. All I can recall is the eternal buzzing of LED light-waves shooting daggers into my eyes, and the podcast episodes I re-listen to on repeat like a forlorned lullaby. A spectre of a song that might lull my aching heart to rest if only it weren't wielded as a self-sabotaging addition to the buzzing I hope to quiet by.

I don't want to turn this into a sorrow-fest, but that's really all what has been for me. I don't want it to continue, and think it won't. I might typically say I am discouraged to go on, but really I'm not. I know this sombre night will return to morning light in due time, and I trust myself and my environment to regulate these things. But damn, if I weren't here I would be in hell.

I left the house to buy groceries a few times and to stare at the water. But, often times, I couldn't avert my eyes from the gravel at my feet.

The mountains are still there, the bay is still there, the ocean is still there.

But I find that sitting on the precipice of the onyx bay tonight, I breath and want to puke the salted fish-air that my lungs just inhaled. I cough up a scale and some bones that slash my throat upon their upheaval and choke on the mucous which runs down in respite.

I travelled light for this trip. I assumed I would come back with a whole new wardrobe. I may have acquired a piece or two, but mostly shit waste of money to tow the tides in until I leave this wonder beautiful digital prison.

One pair of shoes: ankle boots, leather, of Italian construction. They get me around, but impress my pinky toenail unto itself.

I ordered a pair of hiking boots today for 30 euro, not bad.

My vision is become blurred.

They aren't exactly hiking boots, but they will get the job done.

For the time being, 5 pairs of t-shirts, 9 pairs of socks, 7 pairs of underwear and four pairs of pants will suffice. Not to mention one wool sweater that wreaks of my own body odour, 2 oxford shirts and 2 blazers.

I'll write some things I would like to do so that hopefully these logs won't turn into glorified self-loathing journal entries.

Looking out at the stars tonight, I wonder if there are different constellations up there that I am not used to seeing above my head in Canada. An Orion's Belt and a Big Dipper are easy enough, but even if they are all the same, I would like to learn some new ones from a land that is closer to where these ideas were conceived.

I want to rent a motorized scooter this week or this weekend to practice riding before my sweetheart arrives, so we may ride without fear.

I want to go on another bike expedition, somewhere new. Perast perhaps?

I want to book a room in Budva and traverse there for a couple of days. Maybe meet some young people and mark my body with a symbol that will leave my mourners wondering.

I want to work on my new website, madman.wiki. I want to have free time to do what I please.

I apologize for this narcissistic mess, but I am sad and alone. But I'm not going anywhere. Not until whatever message I have for the world is written in stone, even if it sinks to the bottom of the Kotor Bay.

I say I am descending, but I am mostly staying still. Like an anchor, I will either stay put or some force will reel me in. I'm not sure what anchors are made out of (cast iron?), but that shit ain't melting no matter the intensity of the sun or His damned posse of liches.

A quick tidbit, there are a lot of large plastic bottles floating in the bay, but not littered. They are used to mark areas to stay away from.

I think I'll take a shower and relax the rest of the night. Maybe cook me up a large piece of pork.

Oink oink oink oink oink oink oink oink. Goodnight.