Away, away, says love. Closer, closer, says hate.
Things are in a perennial state of grey and all of
those who laid bets that I would somehow survive are going to be quite disappointed. It is unexpected to wake up to these glassy
interiors; a part of me must believe that with the night and sleep will come
some mystical change, altering everything into a mistaken belief of purity of
perfection. It was my own heart working
in sickening tandem with my diseased brain that set this trap and now there is
no true means of escape aside from the obvious option. That path generates a flood of positive
emotions but who can truly be sure of its viability? I wonder how much knowledge will actually be
granted to me by death’s release. All
this gnashing of teeth is taking me nowhere.
I don’t suppose there remains any chance of being forgiven. One and two are gone and I know he imagines
that a third would be quite the charm. But
if three are good then four must be great and five must be stellar and so on
and so forth. It is all basic arithmetic,
right? We are seeing the language of a
much high being. I am hungry and
terrified. He does not have the strength
to combat anything. Reality has ceased
expressing his (her?) self. Don’t be so
brave to talk about the fiction of your salvation. You are going to be regretting things for a
very long time and you’re only going to have a couple ideas on how to cope and
they are both bad.
Why does everyone look so sad and miserable?
Perspective is a strange thing. I’m walking through very well-lit corridors
and I see zombies all around me. It is a
beautiful thing to be closed away somewhere.
For every one that is removed I feel as though a pin is dropping
somewhere and a considerable weight is being lifted. It would be fitting to say I traveled with
him and in an instant his wishes became my wishes and I was somehow able to see
them through to fruition. Everyone knows
who they truly are. Once you scrape away
all the pretensions no one is able to fully pretend. I think it must be quite a shock to obtain so
much and to think you’ve made real something that previously only existed in
dreams only to find that you are rapturously more miserable than ever. I’m flooded with arrogance and laugh at
failures. Everyone is losing their
capacity for kindness and I wish they would remove those masks of skin so I can
see what they really look like underneath.
I’m sure we would be much more comfortable, able to breathe a little
better. There is the glorious sound of
metal on metal and it is all I can do not to scream at the top of my
lungs. He thinks of something popping
with great force and all that fragrant irretrievability which would spring
forth and give life to such ruinous origin.
Oh sweet muse, this was also a necessary subtraction. Your number has not yet been counted. A million of me are essentially worthless, a
million of each of them even less. No,
maybe we should flip that around. People
are earning their faces through dedication.
You need to tell me why any of this is happening because I can no longer
relate to all these increasingly bizarre constructs. Have you made peace with his inherent
uselessness? What did the rain look like
when you were shining such a bright light on it?
We live in the void of metamorphoses.
And this is the bit of vital information,
right? This is when we realize that no
one – not a single person – is a saying a damn thing. There is no relevant information being passed
around, only mindless white noise. There
are daggers going through my brain and they make it difficult to think. All that color saturation worked wonders
however. Things inside are saying jump
and something tells me I should be putting on an impeccably tailored navy blue
suit. He’s sinking and no one can tell
him the right way. What are the correct
words to say to be left alone? Let us
keep inserting things directly into our brains that we may feel much less the
foul tugging of our rotten spirits. I think
the same people have confessed to me the same things over and over again and we’re
all spinning around and there are plastic horses with red eyes nearby and when
they talk it is in a very deep voice and I can often hear it when I close my
eyes. He doesn’t want to say things anymore;
it is a much too mean and painful act. I’m
living inside a black and white photograph.
Is anyone else feeling unusually weak in the knees? There is a strange type of double vision
taking place (though that’s probably not the right word) wherein I am looking
at things through my eyes at the same time I am outside myself and looking at
myself from across the room or fifty feet above it. Neither of these vantage points feels real
but both make me want to vomit. I think I
met someone today who felt real and I think I talked to this someone for a few
minutes and but I’m not anywhere near positive about that. And then just like that I smell smoke mixed
with bubblegum and it is somehow the best thing ever. We are mute from one moment to the next and things
move slow and I am not sure if they are ruined entirely or not but I think they
are. I am laughing hysterically over how
unbelievably awful everything is and I remember the sage words of an ancient
king and they ring in my head and then I’m clenching my fists because my mind
is too tight and I feel like crying and nothing feels good anymore but he is
going to embrace that hairy old monster and they will laugh together.
This is a dangerously psychotic man in the corner
there and I think someone needs to exterminate him with great haste lest we all
run the risk of catching his cerebral infection.
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