The Daily Mumfuck

There’s this familiar gnawing I get in my stomach when I watch it. I know this. I’ve always known this. We gut beauty for applause. We beg meaning from dust. We do it blindfolded, grasping for some kind of truth or beauty or whatever’s left. 

I’m haunted by those ghosts: lost love, wasted years, how life grinds everything down. Death isn’t an ending. It’s a breath held too long. We all slump over in ugly, unremarkable ways eventually. Makes me want to stage some extravagant death. Go out with an artistic bang.

It makes me dream of living in a more aesthetically pleasing location. To live in such beauty, places that make you imagine vividly, places where you know none of your work will ever outshine the city, but the inspiration is endless.

But that’s what you think, then you realize that this man Jep, who is 65 years old, is still searching for a goddamn meaning, and that twists my stomach up in a knot.

The only thing that doesn’t die is the fuckass hunt meaning.