A Post for All and None

I don't really write anymore. My blogs were their own significant representations of portions of my life and mind, and they have all ended. I have since opened a new chapter, but I haven't written anything since.

It makes me wonder if there's still anything left in there to write about, or if I have lost the will to exhort my feelings enough to focus them into words. They have been a messy swirl for awhile.

But if I did begin writing again, it wouldn't be here. I appreciate the ultimately random comments that some have given. Even unwritten, there will always be a new chapter waiting.

My preemptive eulogy.

This is the last post I'm writing.





I wake up in the morning and I feel incomplete. I lay in my own filth and charge the rest of the world with deceit. The lies that you tell are told as the truth, yet I see that there's a different in the reason of your chosen route.

Every day, I'm told that what I do is wrong. No one lays a finger on the evidence. It's always about themselves, and not understanding, though it may seem. I don't have the patience or the peace of mind to deal with these people. I cast you out and while I hope to never again hear from anyone, it saddens me. How did I end up surrounded by people who are so blind to everything in life? It's always about points and arguments, wrongs and rights. Empathatically, it should be about wanting to know the truth. Empathy, not holistic dictatorship. I don't care what others think when they shove it at me and tell me I'm wrong... I don't give a shit about the cares of others, especially when they're based only on their own supposition and assumption. Everyone is so blind, yet they see everything around them. They choose not to act or speak their mind, because they don't think it will be their last chance.

When someone blasts against the wind, because they want to be heard, it's always for selfish reasons. It's never about real pain or regret, or hurt feelings... it's in terms of what they want to accomplish by speaking. It's a lie, because it's for the wrong reasons and nothing more than empty words. Fuck every single person who thinks this way, and I hope that they are greeted with a true understanding of how cruel life can be. I see it so easily, yet it's still driven through with the same anxiety, as if by completing their statement it's immortalized in stone. As if I care at all why they're speaking, as if I don't see right through them and want to tear the person apart.

I'm finished with this life, with its intricate clockwork planning my demise. it's a countdown to a climax that leaves me feeling empty, because it's given to those shown in light, those who lie and steal, manipulate and cheat their way into acceptance. They show only what's acceptable, and justify themselves along the way as they chase me into a corner; like I have to explain myself.

If it's just a part of me that is gone and done with, or if its the whole... I don't know. I don't know if I can kill the innermost part of me to save the layers of acquiescence. I don't really want to. I'd rather die than have to live as others do, part of a larger, robotic herd.

I've seen so many things, and done things that most will never know or understand. I've delved so deeply into the drudging chaos of life, and I've been smacked around more than I could ever deal with. Reality is a bitch, and to say that isn't giving the statement enough credit.

Everything makes me sick of life, the seconds that wind down into another night: A long, grueling journey of isolation and insomnia. I always feel as if I missed something, as if I haven't thought things completely through. But, I'm done with that. The rounded corners don't offer any finality, it only leads to another problem, another phase of emotional yearning.

My body is deteriorating, and that isn't an over-exaggeration. I hurt a lot of the time, and my state of mind is affected by it. All I think about are my dreams, my aspirations of completeness. It's all a lie... there is no complete, because others will fuck it up time and time again. People are selfish creatures, whether they want to be or not.

So I'm done. I'm finished, I'm exasperated. I don't need all of this stress, every day, because of other people. Even if its always originated from my own panging, blaring loneliness... I'd rather choose to be alone forever than to have it displayed to me through other people.

I don't know what happens next... but one thing is certain: This part of me is dead. My feelings have died, my mind is barren. The threads that hold me together are unwound and frayed, because I never knew what the 'right' thing to do was. And now, I'm stuck, with no backpedal, no out, nothing. I don't even have a single moment of serenity in the day, because I'm either watching myself slowly die, or having someone explain to me how they know nothing of me, they don't understand my situation in the least, yet they know what's right for me.

So, either way, I'm dead. I'm just waiting for my body to finish the job. And as I go to sleep, as I drift into the subconscious, I know I'll feel the same tomorrow, because I'll still be here, waiting for all those things that never arrive. The things I can't reach for, the things I've already lost.

How do cycles cease? Do they ever?

When I was young, I relished the present, because I adored it. I didn't care about the progression of time, because It didn't mean anything to me.

Now, it's all I can think about.

And what makes happiness? Is it what I gain, or is it what I can let go? Why is every facet of every second of every day so fucked up and convoluted?

Release in the purest sense of the word...

As I sit here, in complete silence, I realize that there is no end. There can be no end, because an ending is satisfaction and conclusion. There may be an instantaneous break, a disconnection that happens faster than the mind can perceive... but there will never be an end.

In Church...

My desires are two layers deep, chewing at each other in a catch twenty-two.

I want to be free, to let everything go, to leave on my own.

I want to be wanted, to be begged away from leaving.

The strength for release is built by the fortitude in containment.

If I left, whether by movement or by finality, would it matter? Would anything stop?

If I stayed, would I get anything I wanted, would I find an answer?

If I leave, would anyone care that I've gone?

If I stay, will every choice I make be wrong?

I'm told it was my obligation...

I woke up today feeling the same as any other. The aches are meaningless because my life has been disconnected.

I have a heavy past, and I think about it constantly. Someone called me today and wanted me to see them. It seems that all I have left are two choices: To be around people who make me feel worthless, people I can't relate, who don't bolster me in any way. Or, I can choose the other path; I can be taken advantage of and used, tossed aside at the next convenience. I usually choose the latter, because I'm cynical and disillusioned. I was going to choose that today... but I changed my mind.

It wasn't because of an epiphany, or because of a rush of confidence. It wasn't because I realized my self-worth, and knew I was better than this. It wasn't because I could no longer put up with the bullshit that gets thrown at me by other people. It's because I gave up.

I don't care about making friends, or keeping them. I don't care about strengthening connections, and I don't care about growing. I don't want to progress any more, and I don't want to accumulate experience. I don't want to walk down this path any more.

I just want to stop. I want everything to stop. I want to go to sleep tonight, and wake up tomorrow in someone else's shoes, or not wake up at all. This is what my life has become: Not a sullen, downtrodden acquiescence, but a frustrated, lackadaisical life based on ultimatum. I don't give a fuck what other people think, even if they see me as a beggar, living on the street. No one knows a damned thing about me, and nobody cares to find out.

I don't want any more addictions and I don't want any more plans. I don't want the things that are promised to me, then taken away at the last moment, like a lighthouse switching off as the storm approaches. The choices I've made, I've made for myself. Not for others to be guided by, or to be used as a model... I simply made them for myself because I stopped caring. But, this has been viewed as influence, as if I think what I do is right. There is nothing in my daily life that makes me happy in any way, and I do all I can to escape from it. I don't think apathy is cool or mysterious. I don't think that sorrow is a style.

The first girl I ever loved was someone I drove away. The second died, and I have no idea how to deal with that. The third is a whimsical slut, and knows nothing of who I am or why I drive forty-five minutes just to spend a night with her.

All I can do is what I do every night. Sit here, loop the same CD over and over, and try to find a distraction. I don't want the emptiness of physical intimacy. I don't want the emptiness of addictive behavior. I don't want the emptiness of wearing a shroud, and watching those around me act like puppets. I don't want the emptiness of never defending myself because I see no value in my reflection. How can so much vapidity build up inside of a void?

I thought that these feelings would end... I thought that I could let things go. But, it's been so many years, and the thoughts never change. The manifestations of my angst and frustration follow every action I take. They cling to every person I meet. They're driving me, like they have countless times before, into a suicidal rage. If I broke an apex, and did something irreversible, would it matter to anyone else, save for their own condescention and arrogant thinking?

I live inside of an abstract maze, built by insanity and isolation. I'm unstable, unreliable and incoherent. I have to be me every day. I have to wake up and look at myself, and wonder what happened to me.

It's not a problem with a solution, or a riddle to solve. It's my life, a neverending and increasingly complex swirl of erratic impetuosity. I don't need advice, or tips on how to think or live day-to-day. I need someone to care... and not in an unattached, cautious, judgemental way.

Everything is a commercial, we advertise our memories...

I'm erratic, nonplussed and aimless. Try as I might, I can't find a target. Inside a static life, I'm striving to construct a sign. But you can't build things like that... you can't build a purpose. I'm stuck in the motion of falling, with nothing else to do. And it's the only choice, anyway.

If there was a way to deviate from madness, I'd surely like to know. If you think you can do better, then tell me which way to go.

I knew I'd lose you...

The 'me' who was lost inside a storm.

It's gut-wrenching, feeling the end of something important. It starts as the desperate want to turn back time and reverse mistakes. It grows into fear, anger, loathing and insanity. It ends in a flash of self-destruction. And then it's gone.

With so many chasing something they don't even understand, I stand still, miles off the path, wondering why they keep running....

I stand here, surrounded by the beginning of an end.