As the blood in my veins turns to alkaline and the viselike grip on the muscle in my chest tightens, I'd like to take a moment to reflect.
The difficulty comes in trying to transcribe what is inherently indescribable. How can I convey the misery through which I suffer? And, more importantly, how can I do it without sounding like a bitch? Or without stealing from better poets than myself? Bukowski or Keats or Ginsburg, or, fuck, Thom Yorke, Jeff Tweedy?
But I wake up every morning and wish that I hadn't. A comment I've made to various of the people I know, once eliciting the response "That sounds like a fairly... um... disappointing existence." And yes, that's exactly what it is. The best word for it. For me. Disappointing. The motions of life are bizarrely alien, despite the fact that I engage in them daily, constantly.
It disturbs me to see the people around me fuck up in the same ways I have. It disturbs me to see things around me happen to my friends the same way they happened to me. It disturbs me to see life play out in the same way it has for me for so many other people. The lack of originality that is unfairly imbued on existence is terrifying. That the very nature of my being is almost exactly the same as others puts me in such a state as to make it almost impossible to feel as though anything ever even could change, notwithstanding what actually will. (And what will? That's right, nothing.)
I just don't get it. Am I supposed to? If the meaning is whatever I decide it is, then why isn't that fulfilling?
The rage that fills my body at the slightest, indeed, imaginary provocations is astounding. The sensation of being alive makes me wish so sincerely that it weren't actually so. The fact that on a good day I wake up and wish I had a gun to put in my mouth just depresses. In fact, it manages to depress others more than it does me, and that says something. The worst part is that this shit makes me feel like I'm the biggest fucking baby on the planet Earth. I apparently share a cursed consciousness like those perky lead characters from Notes from Underground and Ulysses. Hah, yes, really. "History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awaken." Precisely.
I'm sure it's comforting to my friends. After all, of all of their peers, I'm probably doing the worst. "I'm doing terrible, I can barely afford food, but at least I'm doing better than Chuck." Optimism! Woo-ha.
And I don't know what to do. I'm breaking down. I'm losing what's left of the remnants of my mind. I'm going fucking crazy. I don't want anything, I can't do anything, I won't achieve anything.
That'll do.
