archaic and tired

I’m sitting here with way too many thoughts running through my head - typical of a slow night, just out of the shower and my hands are terrifically dry from the soap I’m using. There’s a Citronella candle burning in the opposite corner of my room (isn’t Citronella only supposed to burn outside to kill mosquitoes?), and the yellow reflections from the candle’s surrounding glass jar impatiently wrinkle the surface on my walls. I can hear Mayer in the background… Gravity… such a fucking good song. But, of course, most of his voice is drowned out by the droning uproar going on inside under all this goddamned hair.
I’m actually pretty sure Citronella is only supposed to be used outside. Something about the way the candle burns… too thick to be dispelled modestly inside the home. At this point, I figure that my shit cant possible get any more clouded. Fuck mosquitoes. Fuck cobwebs and dust and this excess amount of shit clogging my air (figuratively speaking. I already blew out the real candle anyway)… There is a division of thought inside my head that keeps preventing me from being overly careless or carefree for that matter, especially under circumstances like this. I (try to) keep that solace of autonomy locked up in a cobweb-y corner of past recollections, behind boxes of nostalgic compensation and futility, titled “Shit”. There are rows of rows of these ideological manifestations - old love(r)s, great restaurants, high school rumors, too-tight jeans, parking tickets, etc, that remind me exactly what to enjoy, what to avoid, and most importantly, what to let go of. The problem with titling each of these thematic tribulations is that I begin to develop a sense of subjectivity: this is a really classy way of saying that I become too fucking sensitive and wary of everything.
Another over-sophistication of my behavior: I like the word Indolence. It makes my laziness sound tres tres chic.

Jesus it feels good to write like this once in a while.
There really is no point in running away from any one thing. Fuck its cold right now. Hoping this racket wont keep me up tonight. I wish I could just empty everything out. Just like the avant-garde old days. Slap a leech on your temple… suck all these fucking thoughts out of my head. Please!