what to do?

Well here we are and I can dribble to my hearts content.  Pity you.  Pity me.
Suddenly feeling like it is not what i wanted but persist in the vain hope that it will transpire that my lack of faith will mutate and the restrictions that fear and aprehension impose will subside, to what I do not know.
Teaching......it's a good start.  Lovely little cherubs except for the boy so badly brought up that i am at a canstant loss as to what to do. His sweet eyes and cheeky smile redeem him at times but mostly his sole desire is to be the sole focus of attention. Not enough hugs as a babe.  What makes these things happen to little people. Is the that disorder disease really true. Does a pill fix it.  It has crossed my mind i can tell you.
I have this bloody postmodern essay to write and I am too gutless to try it.  I fear they lie when they say they want to truly legitimise post modernism on par with academic writing. I wish.  All that technical jargon can drive me up the wall sometimes. It just feels like semantics.
Feeling less sad knowing i owe nothing to anyone tomorrow but my treasured stone. Our Saligram.  It is an effort to get space in community.  Having been brought up in the lonely and isolated suburbs i actually think I may be addicted to the isolation.  Connecting is a truly difficulty thing. It requires faith in humanity. Transient at my age, 43.  Oh God i told you. No grey hair yet but soon I will be initiated into the respectably aged, wise and forlorn.

So the sannyasi's come through and the older I get the more pity I have for them. The farce they must maintain. The living death, absurd. Instead family life is replaced with politics and position. Maybe some of them are genuine but what is that in this day of mutated meanings.
Your meaning, my translation and in the soup we swim to each other and gouge each others eyes out in the hope that one of us is blinded to the others lies.
So do you think this essay will work in pure metaphor and all other manner of literary trickery. I'd have to be bloody skilled but most of all i have to keep away from their dissections as they rob writing of its feeling. As if it were a car to be built instead of a gift to be experianced .
Damn those twaddle nosed academics who know how to wash the dishes ever so well that they take the fun out of random living. We always like to keep a few stray dishes on the bench.  That lived in feel.
Worse than writing an endless letter. It has no defined reader.  Almost sadistic in its continuing.
Sleep may offer respite from both my mind and my bad breath.  Too much detail?