Getting shittier by the minute ..and there are TOO MANY MINUTES

Where is the bottom, exactly? I’ve been searching for a long time. I sift through the mud at the bottom of this wretched ocean, groping for that metaphorical rock bottom which so eludes me. Every day I find myself digging more desperately than the last, performing pitiful acts of self depreciation, drilling deeper, or perhaps further, in an uncertain direction.

 

(A cig a day.. eventually, a pack a week.. now a pack a day.. these things take far too long to do the dirty. MAY AS WELL GO SMOKE ONE RIGHT NOW)

 

I hoped that I would be smothered down here. Or, that some mysterious sea creature would spare me these moments, ease me back into the cycle. These things dance eagerly on the edges of my mind. However, my gills are apparently working, and processing silt. And it does not seem as if nessy will visit any time soon.

 

(..I laugh, as I might, when I see that the brightest thing in my life, is the light of cigarettes I breathe each night..)

 

And so I continue my search. I find myself yearning to dig the deepest hole; twas always my nature to pursue the most of something, the best of something, to be my own kind of unique.. I could never have conceived this would be the path I would walk..

 

(grieve. good riddance)

 

..and the reality of it still shocks me, now and again. It’s easiest to shut out the images, the bugs, the itches, and merely cringe at their irritated clawing on my windows. And this, I do, for most of my days. But I just cannot help, that most familiar of feelings…

 

(I simply don’t forgive myself. I never will. I don’t deserve it. I couldn’t hope for anything more than to be forgotten. I have failed)

 

And of course, being ample lifeblood for true despair, cue some gust of memory. Through myself it strains a refrain, painting my mind once again; I am blessed with sensations of a time, a place where the air was clear.. certainly, not here..

 

( I just walked into a room, and nobody shifted uneasily, or started whistling. Is this heaven?)

 

In abstract beauty, I reconstruct my recollection of simple luxuries, instances which never seem significant as they happen.. but gazing up at their presence, they seem impossibly tall and incredibly wonderful.. but I suppose that is typical, when my point of view grovels below the feet of insects.

 

(I want to find whoever thought it would be a good idea for me to be alive and punch ’em in the MOUTH)

 

I am disgusted. I am disgusting. Was I born to suffer? Was I destined to fuck up THIS bad? Am I merely a conduit of hatred? Does it matter if I ask questions? My mind has been stretched from overuse and abuse. Form has become amorphous.

 

It makes me sick, seeing others give up, wallow in self pity, when there is absolutely nothing wrong with them. Many have given up all hope at the first hurdle. Certainly no chance to fall, then. And neither any chance of rising in triumph.

 

(Never lived. Why live, then? Never truly suffered. How, then, did I get so good at it? I’m just weak. I just gave up.. I never even tried)

 

I have many criticisms of the global society, those who shape it, and those who live within. These things which grind at my core, be them actions, habits, thoughts or attitudes, are of a peculiar nature. Should I look closely, I might find that every one of them is quite similar, as they are fragment of a greater whole, and that I myself chipped off of the same block..

 

..should I drop these shards on the ground, scatter them in full display.. perhaps I may catch a glint, a spattering of my own grim reflection staring from every conceivable direction..

 

(the truest source of dread is the helplessness. The hopelessness. The undeniable loneliness. Oh, and my unwillingness to forgive myself)

 

I’ve reinvented what it means to be alone. I will, through unintentional subtitles, cause you to say the same thing everyone else has said. In my infinite cleverness, I will find a way to say a heaping pile of nothing (and it’ll still take you couple seconds to comprehend it!)

 

Undeniably, I will make you itch. Your face will yearn for a scratching. People walking by will feel it, too. They won’t know why. They may not even notice it. But I feel.. every.. fucking.. scratch.. nails on the chalkboard is music in comparison to a physical manifestation, in OTHER PEOPLE, of my own disturbed mental state…

 

(repeat, again and again. same thing, this time. Palinopsia, literal and metaphorical. Lets do it again and again, and make something truly terrible. I am a broken record. I skip and repeat, even on the parts that aren’t broken, again. And again. Oh, and…)

 

…and I step back, and I see. I can finally see. I take a deep breath, and suck it all in. I am alive. This is life. Now is my chance. Our reality is infinite, wonders, complexities, patterns and people are everywhere to be seen, in every direction…

 

..and thats what makes it so unbearable.