Cosmic doom

Hi, I’m not enough, what’s your name? When you realize what you were doing was trying to project magical qualities onto someone that totally do not exist. You, you beautiful thin distraction with most forms of intellectually stimulating media and I spend moments alone and the quiet terror of being alive is growing louder and louder.

Two black holes silently and violently orbiting around each other, trying to get drunk every night to block out this consciousness that which feels like rodents in my day dreams, trying to block out the error of our romanticized fantasies.

I am enjoying the unreplied texts to death, I’m ghosted by death itself. Now it doesn’t even matter when humans ghost me. My inner demons are already tired of my inner monologue.

Our affair is so empty even the void is jealous of us. We definitely should perceive other realities. But nothing tastes as good as this void. Cosmic aloneness, my main bitch. We fucked reality and married fantasy. Taking walks on the beach, drinking coffee and imagining situations that cannot happen. I got something for you this valentine’s, disappointment. I don’t think you’ll feel it though…you know, with the lack of expectations and all.

Please deny my existence. Before that let’s go eat off the bare earth the delirium from which we were born. Like out of all the abysses in all the land, you had to stare into mine.

Not tonight love, I have to spiral into uncontrollable anxiety. Maybe we could avoid each other again soon, yeah? Even the skeletons in my closet won’t talk to me. Movie and chill? No thanks, but we could binge watch the rapid loss of our sense of self and compare darknesses together.

We are obsessed with ourselves, comes with mental illness territory, no good can sprout or be maintained from us and we secretly like it. We know it.

You know why I do not care what you do to me or anyone really, unintentionally or not, because it is like a confirmation bias with my inner self. With my fucked up ness I am okay with it. Don’t even apologize, that’s for people who care.

Be free, be enchanted, be ready to be cosmic dust. I released you when my fantasy of you ghosted me. I now belong deeply to myself. In a complicated relationship with my sense of self, self destruction, blue period, trying to find the return policy on the gift of life.

Maybe one day you will come over and binge watch my manic episodes.

I am not leaving. I was never there. Petals of illusion. I need to focus on being my own pestilence, you can destroy me, I want it but I want to do it myself, the satisfaction. I am desperately clinging to an endless day dream of drug fueled art parties.

Constant thoughts of decay. Everyday I am questioning why I am alive. Our depressions are not compatible. I wish they were. Maybe our silences won’t be so loud. I am being held hostage by human consciousness and that is the war I am fighting every day. All you tell me is what I go through but you may just be blind to that with the concept of how nobody understands you, so I will not my head and listen. I m done wanting to be understood.

That awkward moment you realize how cold you’ve become but you still want to say, “let’s dress up as our vague sense of incorporeal dissatisfaction and dance under the pale moonlight.” because you have nothing to lose.

Some nights

It’s one thing to say one thing but it gets misunderstood even when you explain it. I get bored explaining things, that’s just me. Currently I just want to be quiet and listen. My favorite blogger on Human are Weird wrote down something I could relate to succinctly. I feel these things and it is okay, just listen without looking confused as to what to do with me. Everything goes, this feelings will go and at the moment I do have them.

“Sometimes you wake up but you don’t want to wake up you just want to roll over and fall back asleep because you hate your life and it’s all black and everything just stinks and you feel like a bad page of poetry written by some lonely talentless teenager but you realise that you’re not. You’re a fully grown man who has simply lost his will to keep on keeping. Yeah. You’re a bad page of poetry written by the sweaty pen of some pimple-spangled teen.

And you wonder why you keep on going what the point is if there is any sort of light at the end of the tunnel or where the fuck the tunnel’s end actually is. You kick yourself because you feel like it’s all your fault. You don’t work full time and you don’t live or lead a normal life and you know that you can’t you knew it when you were small you knew that you could do things really quickly and easily but that doing them stressed you out and that doing them required your attention and that you just didn’t have any attention to give. That’s just how you are and that’s just how it is but you still hate yourself and your life and everything in your life because of it and what the fuck is the point of going on.

And you feel lonely because it’s not that no one understands you but that no one really gives a shit or wants to understands you. If you want to feel understood you just pick up a book and read classic literature because a few of those weirdos understood you because they were a lot like you. But it’s not about being understood; it’s about people giving a fuck to understand you. And not even your close friends really give a shit and your partner does but it’s just for whatever fucked up warped reason not enough. And most your family feels like a different species of mammal and people around you feel like they’re from a different planet and it’s fucking lonely. And so you write.

And then you remember that writing is what got you into this mess in the first place. Writing is what gave you hope that your passion a passion you never knew could be pursued. And you think fuck, fuck fuck fuck. I’ve been doing this for so long now and seen absolutely no reward not financially at least and you wonder why, why why why the fuck am I still even bothering with this self indulgent practice that only barely keeps me saner than I ordinarily am which still isn’t any where near a point you’d call sane. And you remember that you love writing but apparently it doesn’t love you because it’s a fickle piece of the life that you so desperately want to end.

And you convince yourself that there will be light at the end of the tunnel that there is an end to this tunnel in which you’ve found yourself that this bottomless well isn’t actually bottomless and that it will all, one day, pay off. And you convince yourself that living a life that doesn’t forever desire little more than a bed and a dark space will squeeze out of the blackness of your vacuum chest and suck you into some less dire land where living day to day week to week month to month meal to meal isn’t. Is not.

But it’s bullshit because you just know it’s bullshit. Nothing is guaranteed. Nothing is certain. Even uncertainty isn’t particularly certain. And so you roll back over into your warm pillow and you drool and you bite and you cry and you pull and you do everything that you can do to keep on fucking going because that’s what you have to do. If there’s one thing that you have to do it’s keep going.”