A Tree Falls in the Forest

I came up last night to the surface to pouring rain and laughed in spite of myself for getting wet for the first time (outside of regular bathing) when leaving the fucking submarine. I'm surrounded by water daily, and when I decide to go up to the atmosphere, there happens to be torrential rains. This is yet another sign that god hates me.

After toweling off my face and returning to my womb, the Morale, I became fully aware of something: In the last four weeks or so, I've done exactly what I wanted to do for probably the first time in my whole life. When I read about these men who came and died before my time who were famous for just living their lives and recording their exploits, it gives me some hope for those who just do what they want without apology and with (hopefully) minimal preaching. "We all treat grief differently," but in the case of Sylvia, I am oddly set free... despite my metal tomb.

The thing that sets me apart from those famous writers and such who came before is that people read them. I don't write much, and when I do there isn't much anyone hasn't thought or heard before, so I have some excuse, but it's sort of depressing to think that what my father called a "call for attention" is panning out to give me less attention than I got previously.

Womb and tomb rhyme.

Think about it.