No calling myself out on everything I write in real-time.
No considering others’ judgment
This time I very much write this to myself
I write and I let it sit
I let who I am be
This disclaimer may in case offer an even more compassionate canvas of honesty. If you actively wrestle with the need to be a good person, something in this publishing has to be worth something.
I am profoundly depressed.
Again. I always was.
Though my depressed life has been to this point a narrative of notable creed-testing meteor showers—weaved between the checkpoints of resilience. For gratitude of versatility, it’s felt different every time, whether it’s a different thing or person to blame, circumstance, subject, outlook, whatever. I know 2018 was the pinnacle near-death of my youthful life. Go figure I thought the 25-year crisis was a fantasy. I still think it just as much could be. It’s a defining kind of self-fulfilling prophecy.
I’ve come out still alive on the other side of each cataclysmic depression. And while many times I come out with the armor dents and temporary injuries that will lead to stronger scar tissue, some things don’t hurt to heal. Some things are marked. And depending how you take the responsibility, in my perspective, I’m usually the one to brand the proverbial scars.
I’m most scared of being a bad person. I might also be as scared of reaching what I want.
If I don’t get what I long for, I’m scared I’ll use that as ammo to hurt others against my better wish. But when I pay the price for being bad, and as a result certain to not get what I long for—which feels like 99% of my more opaque wants—then the grounding and humility from the condemnation is what gets me to atone and try doing good things.
I also try doing good things on principle, but I feel like at any point the absence of good coming my way will break my hope and that’s when I start jerking off on the street and whipping shit. So I might only try being good cause I want something for myself, which might be why it feels so easy to go back bad when it doesn’t work. But I find myself ashamed every time when the dust settles. So is my good still there?
And if I get what I want? Will that be a green light to drive a convertible while lacing cigar butts at and slapping out people down the street? Which makes me an entitled bitch more than a virtuous martyr.
I ask myself these questions cause who I am I doubt. And if my own narrative of myself holds no objective truth, then the monumental task of my sensationally unimportant life is to be better.
Can I even?
Now that I am soulfully dead?
And going back to the stats of each cataclysmic event over my life, this one’s new. Though maybe there’s something sick about metaphorically declaring myself dead for real inside but still functioning physiologically. But that’s about it. A vessel needs a soul. And mine went on a suicide mission. So it’s probably searching for Hadrian by now, wherever his wraith went.
Can I live without a resurrection?
Would I even want one?
No. The only reason my soul floored its car into a brick wall was it got sick of being given no reasons for it to live for. I failed my own self. I won’t entitle myself to win it back.
Much less someone else to do it for me.
I stay true to myself. No one stays for that.
I say how I really feel. It’s not what someone wants to hear. It doesn’t convenience or suit them.
They won’t stay. Nor will they come at all.
No one needs me.
I know I deserve it anyway.
I’ve been a 5-star-bastard my whole life, so what is it about my human programming that persists this wanting all the same to be wanted? For all the human connection I fought for, a collateral trail of magma lays in my wake. I hate the preppy dogmatic angel that flutters around pointing out everything I do wrong. I am a devil. I know the destruction I’m capable of and all my hands could give is fire. So which angelic insidious hypocritical do-gooders could I expose by lighting up? And because I understand fire, who can I save from a burning building?
Trust me it’s not that I don’t believe in moving on, I do. I move on with not moving on. I’m sure that might sound petty to you and I wouldn’t blame you. But when I remember that bonds and their collisions are cosmically random anyway, that when I say I’m not joking I know I’m not joking, that fuck you you’re stupid, and if nothing else the willingness to sympathize with your solitude when no one will ever need you—that in of itself is self-love.
Our perception of reality is arbitrary. Even if we wished otherwise, we can’t see past what our peripheral visions extend to. We’d know how much is out there for us to know and feel. But this one life is so insultingly narrow, restrictive, and finite. I’m almost certainly guaranteed to die before I find what I’m looking for which would only realistically be located on the straight up opposite side of the planet cause god’s a little fucker. Hence I max out what and who’s around me for all it’s worth.
And it’s not worth it. The vending machine’s already empty. Except for just ..fuckin RC cola.
I have to aim for more.