Words and actions and poems and thoughts, all are alive and yet none are constant.  I could think all that I want, but nothing would happen, and I can drink all I’d like, yet nothing would happen.  My skin is starting to peel back with the poisons of  life, the time keeps on ticking, but none of this seems right.  I’ve been drunk with lust, liquor, sadness, and woe, but the grief that I feel seems to fill all I know.  Death doesn’t await, but I can still feel it near, I’ve lost all but my hope, and my dreams fill with fear.

I can physically feel my soul dying.  It’s as if the shattered pieces are drifting out of my heart like thread being pulled through clay, and the more I think about it, the more my body burns with a hollow, exasperated emptiness that reverberates from my very core.  I’m beginning to fear everything.  I can’t bear the thought of solitary human interaction, of unpleasantness, of confrontation, of awkwardness, of causing others discomfort, or of even looking into the eyes of a stranger.  I am paranoid that every single irrational, drastic thing that my mind conjures up will come true.  The sickness and misery of civilization leaves me feeling weary with the burden of keeping a smile on my face in the midst of such horror.  All fervency for a fulfilled life has been carved away, and all that is left is a small figure of a life, curled up in the fetal position, awaiting the ever looming presence of death.  Time has become the needle that pierces the pin cushion of my mind, each day that I stay alive, it shoves another one deeper inside, begging the question of why, why am I alive?  I don’t see a point and I don’t see an end, I see only a gray and miserable path, leading me further from what I want, yet just the same from what I don’t.  There are a million doors, all of which offering things that may somehow be pleasing, and yet even if I had each of the keys, I would never have the courage to unlock the locks out of fear for what I might see.  Happiness is no longer a task or a goal, but an impossible award that I will seemingly never allow myself to achieve.

The people who fall into these categories should eat shit and die.  The world is a pretty terrible place already, so there’s no need to further contribute to the deterioration of beauty and positivity as we know it.  Not to say that I am not awful in my own accord, but rather that those who spend the vast conglomeration of their time focused on the propagation of hatred and malevolence should quite promptly cease and desist.  With all the desperation and despair in the world, why must we continue to go out of our way to wreak havoc upon those weaker than us?  Why can’t we simply live our lives in peace, as free, filthy, freakish or exposed as we please?  There is a sickness in the youth of the world, and sooner or later, it’s going to tear us up by the roots of all which holds our very existence together, and it’s going to hang us out to dry.

The world is a bleak and falsely fanciful place.  It encourages the young follow their dreams, to work as hard as they can to strive for the they want to live, yet how cruel is it that all of these efforts are ultimately futile?  There is no hope outside of the shallow possibilities for success and existence, there are no options except a standardized way of education and employment. How can one dream when a dream is simply just that—an impossible image of one’s ideal existence.  I have screamed and bled and wept over the sheer simplicity and impossibility of what I want to pursue, and the utter lack of hope of it ever actually coming true makes me want to carve the very heart out of my chest and give up on every talent I have been bestowed.  How can the world tell me to value who I am and what I’ve been blessed with, when all of these very things are so completely fucking useless at the same time? I can’t make a fruitful and prosperous living writing poems, essays, and stories, I can’t afford the cost of living selling paintings in the streets, I can’t expense even the cheapest groceries sewing clothes and trinkets to the young.  There is no middle ground, one must either relinquish to the repugnant existence of consumerism, or live with nothing, traveling, and relying on the good will of strangers.  Am I greedy to want a somewhat middle ground, or am I ignorant, to hope that this will ever be possible?  I do not want the gaudy, comfortable perks of a societal money-based life, and I do not want the utter belonging-less detachment of a penniless traveling life—I want only to be happy with a way of life somewhere in between.  I want the things and people for which I truly value, and I want the little things that give me pleasure.  I want to be able to wear a dress and smile in the sun, and I want to paint in a field with the freedom of my art around me.  I do not, however, want to be burdened by the weight of the laws of sale, of barter, or of free will. I don’t want to think of the corruption of the artistic publishing industry, and I don’t want to fret over agents, and the like. I simply want to create beauty, and pass it on, in exchange for anything that might aid me in making a simpler way of life.  Happiness is the only thing for which we should fight.

The only things that I am good at are writing, painting, sewing, drinking, and taking my clothes off.  These are the things that I constantly find pleasure in, indulge in, escape to, and beat myself over.  None of these things will allow me to one day making a fruitful, wholesome life, and none of these things will ever been seen as a respectable existence within the civilization that I exist in, and yet these are the only things I can ever stand to do, no matter the misery or despondency that possesses my heart.  It’s as if I yearn to be a functioning member of society, but I only find pleasure in degeneracy, so it’s either I relinquish to the impossibility of my dreams, or forsake any possibility of ever being happy with the life I live.  Do I strive for correctness and live a life of prosperous misery, or do I give in to my darker need for fulfillment and forget my anxious need to succeed in the superficial sense of reality? I teeter on the cusp of so many troubled paths, and I see no complete contentment in any of them.

When I look at the world around me, I see a vast portrayal of life being carried out on the whisper of hope that one’s actions will ultimately aid them in the creation of a meaningful existence, and I am left baffled.  Reality is nothing more than a trivial play put on by puppets of flesh, and the mere knowledge that I am also one of these puppets leaves me with a dark storm of exasperation and confusion due to the simple fact that I find no pleasure or point in the role that I play.  The sheer futility of life as we know it is irrepressibly disorienting, for what’s the point of carrying on when everything means nothing?  Just as time ticks, the seconds seem to pound down, rapping, tapping, tapping, like a million wooden doors slamming open and closed in the chaos of my mind.  Existentialism at its best, I can do nothing but stay alive, observing the people around me, and wondering why they do not question the very same things that I cannot seem to escape.  What’s keeping mankind from picking up a knife and carving out their veins?  What’s keeping them in their miserable dead-end jobs, pursuing a pitiful weekly compensation that they will undoubtedly spend on the expenses of life itself?  Why bother?  Fear of the unknown is the only thing that I find to be pushing me forward through time; fear of the unknown and an ever-wavering yet unyielding hopefulness that there will one day be a point.  Such cynicism and depressing despondency is like a plague, making the days a little darker and the nights a living hell.  I fear for the sake of the human soul, for if it really does exist, it surely must be blackened by the evil that comes with the hatred of how wretchedly meaningless life is this world.  Nearly every doctrine or guideline of human existence speaks of gratitude and lessons learned, how hard work will pay off and respect will win wars, yet in actuality, none of these things will come true in the end.  Appreciation of the simple things is easier said then done when one’s mind is burdened by the insufferable weight of philosophical agony. 

When I sleep, I dream, and when I dream, it’s beginning to feel more and more like I am merely closing my eyes and imagining stories too fucked up or surreal to see when my eyes are open.  When I don’t dream, I don’t sleep, and it’s often because I am drunk off disappointment, depression, vodka, or lust, and I have nothing else to give, to see, or to want, other than the hazy image of naked limbs and words too confused to come out until the dawn of dawn itself.  I am not lonely nor alone, but rather frozen in a cage of something that I don’t understand; something passionate and troubled, something that wants more than anything in the world to be loved for reasons beyond its own comprehension, something that I will never see, and something that I will always hope to know.  Days pass, the moon waxes and wanes, and yet all I seem to remember is the vacant shame of shameless self-indulgence, and the raw revelry of hollow desire, and I thus grow increasingly disappointed in the person I have become.  I love the life I live, and I live the path I choose, yet why do I nevertheless feel such anger and angst over the actions I so consciously commit to out of disgust for my fervency in acts I should be appalled by? Reality is shit, and so are we.

Day to day interactions play out like a poorly constructed theatrical event; nothing is going right, and yet there is nothing that could have been done to prevent such catastrophic failure.  Depression depresses even the happiest of smiles, and night time no longer brings the lulling promise of sleep, only anxiety and withdrawal, driving the deepest of stresses into the calmest of nerves and swearing that with each and every day to pass, life will grow increasingly miserable.  You can’t think, you can’t laugh, you can’t ignore it, you can only push away the tears and hope to god that you can either pass out or black out before the pain becomes unbearable and you take it out in flesh, carve it out in blood.  The sun rises and it all is as it once was, but the knowledge of the misery to come with the passing of the moon weighs heavy on your shoulders and it all becomes a game, taunting you as to whether or not to seek help, or ignore the problem.  We are fragile figurines carved of glass, and we are beginning to shake in the face of the storm of humanity.  Fingers crack and faces shatter, yet we do noting but try frantically to piece them back together, praying that it all goes away in the end.

My life is the image of a large, gray chalk board.  I keep putting pictures and words and ideas up onto it, but they all keep smudging and becoming illegible in the face of the continued focus that I apply to any given one of them.  Nothing is expressed as clearly as it was originally meant to be, and anything that I may feel the slightest passion or interest for seems to end up a two dimensional depiction of a poorly construed idealistic dream.  Nothing is real. Nothing lasts longer than a few fleeting moments. Nothing is bold. Nothing is satisfying. Nothing is long term.  If only I could translate my life into something tangible, because maybe then I could stop poisoning my nerves with self-loathing, indecision, desperation, and judgement, but I feel that I am eternally forsaken to a wasteland of despondency and drunken disappointment.  Never good, never bad, simply mediocre enough to warrant a response that will sooner or later be reduced to a remorseful mood of regret and frustration.  I smile on the world, but there’s nothing left inside.

I have a problem, and it’s that I hate reality.  I am either bored, or lonely, or unsatisfied, or depressed.  It makes me so utterly lethargic and despondent that I am driven into bouts of rage and self-destruction because existence as a whole troubles me in so many ways that I cannot find a way to simply enjoy life for what it is, let alone the simple things.  I hate every waking moment that I am forced to live in a way that I find no joy from, and I hate my life for becoming something that I find so lackluster due to circumstances beyond my control.  The world is something of a movie for me, and it makes me sick to my stomach how undesirable I find everything within it, due to a reason that I can hardly explain.  How can someone find the very essence of life to be something of trouble? I don’t hate who I am or where I’ve come to be, I merely detest the basic presence of myself within every single concrete or conceptual facet of the environment around me.  It is as if I am being forced to inhabit a world that I was never meant to be in, for every fundamental aspect of how things are supposed to function seems to stand for everything that I abhor.  I can hardly even tell if I am alone in these troublesome feelings of misery and silent loathing or if they can be explained through some common diagnosis or disorder, but I am nevertheless stricken with a panicked feeling of desperation for the simple fact that I find life in the real world so thoroughly insufferable. 

Nothing makes sense outside of my head. Nothing even making sense inside of it either, but the scattered array of broken images and violent emotions make it a little bit easier to understand.  I used to never believe that the things about oneself were outside of one’s own control, yet I am becoming more and more troubled by the fact that this is seeming very, very plausible.  Anything I tell myself, promise myself, or make myself swear; it is these things that I am doing only moments later, for the original promise was nothing more that a disappointed comparison of the actions in my life versus the person I believe I was meant to be.  Everything that I want I simultaneously forsake out of a hollow, hedonistic enjoyment of all that which corrupts a human being.  Can I ever be better if I am perpetually plagued with a powerful want to change and a tiresome desire to relinquish all hope for such change?  Opposites are evidently pertinent to life, yet they are  slowly becoming such a formidable foe that I fear I may give up all together.

I’m not tragic, troubled, haunted, or ill, I am merely gifted, melancholy, content, and burdened.  I am cursed with the weight of a slightly happy, mundane existence, and I do not know whether to be happy with it, or to curse it for cursing me with a life that I do not know how to handle.  I want to take off all my clothes and bask in the revelry of all which is wrong, and yet I want to stay dressed and hide within the appropriateness of all which is clean.  Where do I go? Who do I see? All is gone, and I fear I am going blind in the face of each choice I refuse to make.

I need to stop thinking. Thoughts turn into sentences which turn into trains of thought which then turn into rants and eventually loop back through my memory to be placed under a careful scrutiny of whether or not I even like the words I’ve originally said, or do I want to somehow change and modify them.  I can hardly even write these words because as soon as they leave my mind and pass through to paper, I am already re-reading them for the sake of how I phrased something or expressed the emotion I am trying to convey.  Day to day tasks are nearly unbearable when I am deep in the throes of an anxious panic for creativity, productivity, or happiness, and so I thus resort to chaotic outbursts of distain for each of which and end up choosing nothing simply because it requires no thought, commitment, or work.  Ideas are even more dangerous than the simple act of thinking for they are the weapons with which I both arm myself against the world, and savagely mutilate my will to go on.  Up and down, back and forth, existence within my body is like a battle to see where I will end up at the end of the day, and whether or not I will be teetering on the edge of a heartbreaking idealism, or an utterly hopeless despondency for life.  I want to say nothing and everything at the same time, I want to spread a message of hope for the would, of hope for those who feel as fucked up and lost as I do, and yet at the same time, I could care less whether or not the world burns and my body turns to ash.  Motivation and inspiration are like deep pools of water, inviting me in to swim but never warning me of the peril that lies within them.  They sharpen ideas and analyze plans, pushing ultimatums and assumed convictions to the brink on insanity, they relentlessly question me as to whether or not my ideas have been created out of personal gain, out of desire for better, or out of the simple hope that I am not just another troubled little girl.  Is this what it’s like to truly love something?  I simply want to do it, regardless of the manner in which it’s done, I am content with the mere act of doing it?  My passion for writing is evident, but I nevertheless feel that I must need another reason for why I want to do such an expressive activity as share my words with the world, for how can love truly ever suffice?  One subject constantly leads to another and before I know it, I am running down a path of fears, hopes, problems, and worries that I never wanted to even gaze upon, let alone travel down.  I stress myself out with trivial issues only to reprimand myself later for getting bothered at all and thus ruining any chance of positivity for the hours to come.  This love of something so elastic, so temperamental, it rocks the world from which I draw my life force, and I can hardly focus on staying conscious in the bedlam of chaos I create around myself.  I am plagued by a constant stream of doubt, questioning why I bother writing what I do, if I’m writing for myself or preaching to someone else, if I’m being brutally honest or spinning a story which I think to be raw, if I’m trying to create beauty within the words or simply saying them out of fear of keeping from them within; I can barely blink my eyes before another question arises and makes me loathe all of which I once thought to be true.  The best one of all, however, is the cruel and ceaselessly mocking speculation of whether or not I think anyone will care, and whether or not I even care.  I am split in half with a hideous maelstrom of bitter self-loathing and modest awe.  Every facet of my life, body, and mind falls subject to the wrath and reward of this volatile duality.  It could be something I’ve written, an action that took place, an accomplishment I achieve, or a regret I bemoan, it will somehow pass through the sickness of my confusion and leave me writhing on the floor out of fear for the true meaning of what happened.  Nevertheless, the most troublesome issue of thinking at all is my unyielding tendency to belittle my mind and laugh at the pathetic notion that I even think my thoughts are special in the face of a world so vast and monotonous.  Shot after shot after shot, deranged thinking leads to inspired ideas and philosophical thoughts, enlightenment gained from troubled deliberation then becomes the subject of study and question, and just as soon as the hopeful resolve was formed, it is once again torn down to the roots, determined to be nothing more than a blindly meaningless grasp at individuality in an world so sickened by repetition.  I can hardly breathe, it’s so hard to think.  My mind is racing like a horse on speed, running for its life.  As soon as I acknowledge that a thought was there, I have already begun to rephrase it or place it so high in value that only moments later I am cursing myself for forgetting the original idea to begin with.  They never stop, they only keep moving, forbidding me from translating them into anything comprehensible.  It’s like two different languages; one inside of my mind, speaking the things that I truly experience and wish to express, and then the one that comes from my mouth and my hands, relaying the things that I interpret to be an accurate illustration of what I was only moments prior brooding upon up above.  Focusing on what to say is a lie, it distorts the message and becomes a show for who or what I think I am speaking to.  I’ll say the same thing eleven different times, eleven different ways and not be happy with what I’ve said, because somewhere along the line something went wrong.  How can I know what I am feeling or doing when I can barely form a sentence that I haven’t completely torn to pieces with skepticism of where it came from or why I said it or who made me think I had the right to believe in it?  One thing after another after another after another, there is no moot point. Everything is connected as soon as my mind finds a way to connect it.  I find peace over the realization of one event only to agonize myself with the question of whether or not I am simply making an excuse for something I’d rather not take responsibility for.  Am I crazy or am I bored, am I troubled or am I just looking for something to give me hope that my meaningless existence is special?  Am I being realistic with this pessimism or am I another cynical, lonely drunk?  I can’t stop indulging, I drink too much and then I think about it, over and over and over again.  Indulgence is an art form, painting you up to be the mess of a person that creates beauty out of something.  Indulgence gives me an escape from having to actually focus on just how fucked up I am letting myself become.  It blurs the lines between my incessant thinking and my dull detachment from all interest in reality.  I love that I know that I am slowly but surely killing myself, and yet I simultaneously loathe myself for knowing that I am embracing this very fact, for the one thing I don’t ever want to do is die.  Existence is feeling more and more like a play for me, and I’m losing track of who am I am versus who I am trying to portray. How do I even manage to exist as such an unstable, contradictory self-loathing hypocrite?  I believe I am truly crazy, but the moment that this statement passes from my lips, I am once again fighting with myself, belittling myself, telling myself that I am a worthless excuse of a degenerate who is too lazy to take action to calm down, so instead decides to blame my troubles on insanity rather than facing the fact that I am just another bored, disillusioned replica of the white american dream.  The world makes me sick, yet I find beauty in nearly everything around me.  I want to save the lives of those who have no hope, and yet I can barely find the motivation to give a shit about myself or my well-being.  Everything is nothing and nothing has meaning.  I am faced with futility and fear and the ebbing desire to solve the problems of the world, one idealistic to-do list at a time.  All I need is just one more pill to make me focus, to make me want to do the things that I have to do.  Maybe if I am in a good enough mood I can manage to accomplish all of the responsibilities that I know I have to do.  Maybe if I just drink a little bit more, I will be less unimpressed by the state of my mind and the things I have to do in a certain amount of time.  Maybe with just a few more drinks, I can sleep, and I wont have to pay attention to time.  Maybe with just one more, I wont stress out as bad as I feel I am inside, and maybe, with just a little bit of luck, I can find a way to somehow feel alive.