On behalf of this whole recent delirium-spree, I’ll try grenade-compressing this publishing as the pre-self-nuke. Spirit wraith—I’m just a 70% liquid vessel; you’ll soon have to do the work for both of us. I should’ve looked out for you more. Sorry.
How could anything be salvaged when you’re already long gone. Past hearing out. All you’d expect is more inevitable poison between the glimmers of pseudo-grace.
Why would I blame you. I knew I’d win the overbearing game.
We’re encouraged by successful people to express what our hearts beseech us to let out. Then
where are they where is anyone after I’ve done exactly that? My expression wasn’t packageable; it wasn’t attractive, capitalizable or IRL monopoly. It just looks like “stay da fok ah’wé fro dat goiuh.” I wanted to forge bonds with salem pagans. No.
I can—if only I—know with definitiveness whenever I’ve felt Everything. But you and they wouldn’t really know that because none of us can ever scientifically know what another person’s feeling—[scientifically] as a formality to replace [searing feels.] The most people can do is bridge the gap between hearts—they don’t come together. Then again I can only speak for myself. I am happy for you if you found your own way.
UNEQUIVOCAL ALONENESS YYAH. These hacks can try wearing it like it’s the new hot underwear. They will not look cool. It’s not a commodity. It’s not something they can have. If it is yours it’s not something you can get a refund for. We don’t get to brag that we scare everyone away only to meet the one person who accepts us + happens to be a model-turned-movie star. You don’t get to pose looking broodingly off into the distance as a tactic to get your slimy bourgeois tongue shoved down a conned person’s throat.
I believe what you do should matter. What’s the point of wasting the time you have by distracting yourself with what you think protects you from pain? Really you are depriving yourself of dying without regrets. And then I rebuke my poeticism with this—is my mission to die without regrets a way to justify the collateral pain I might cause while I am alive?
If it looks like I have some advantage just cause I’m paying to purge what’s left of myself onto this digital real estate, then check it: this whole thing here—everything I’ve already done and that I may manage to do—no matter how gushing with generously vulnerable honesty—how does any of this convince you to hate me less? If anything, I Challenge You to hate me more after it all. I’m so spitefully defiant that in a fight with me, you may not necessarily lose but you won’t win.
On my subjective existence I declare that I don’t matter in the scheme of things, but that stops being valid when I look at innocent people killed by psychopaths. And the universes i.e. the loved ones the dead leave behind don’t come back from all that. They can go forward, but no one gets to say their worlds don’t matter in the scheme of it all.
Is my impulsive perception of and reaction to my reality akin to an infinite-spawn time-bomb? Where no matter what wire I cut it’ll blow up just cause, so alternatively I’m so fed up with the bomb always detonating that I go out of the way to set it off just to have my say. Thing is the outcomes don’t much differ. Destruction lies in my wake. Others get hurt. And when it settles it’s just mirror shards to reflect my badass battle-bloodied face and the results of my choices.
I’ll never give myself any acquitted right to blame anyone for the voids where my heart used to be—whether I fill them with attack-magma to kill my adversaries or leave a void empty to be with the solitude. I can be the most anti-conforming, masses-rejecting poetics-projectile-vomiter—but none of it reduces by even an atom the searing longing for something / someone who no matter what I elaborately say or do they just will never wish for the same thing. Futility, yes?
Do you get where I’m going with this? It doesn’t matter what codes you type, the result you want doesn’t exist to even be activated. To be clear I am not comparing anyone to a computer. My human programming wants something it can’t unlock. Naw. It never existed.
And I wanna think I get what I deserve when I don’t gauge. Whether I scare someone off almost right away or if someone actually gives me something profound and beautiful and I take that as reasoning to utterly overdo my unwarranted response. And I tell myself I’ll learn from my mistakes and learn humility and thankfulness for what I do receive. And every time I go ScrewThaaaat and go all the way and do the no-shower-regrets thing.
Some people call going all the way brave. I call it self-sabotage / self-fulfilling-prophecy / futility. I’ll mess up what I had and say as I lay in the wreckage that if I ever get another chance to see that thing / person I’ll cherish it and then for some reason that opening presents itself and I had a no-regrets-bazooka strapped the whole time waiting to obliterate anything good that comes my way. Before it gets its chance to say “g2g my host want make out wit pretentious-pose-turtlenecker lolipoplol” I decimate it for all it’s worth, cause I prefer being the one who sends it to heaven which is the real Hell.
For the sake of serialization this refers back to the motif of bond unsustainability. Cause without historic or statistical exception I find myself hitting a ceiling of how close I can be to something or someone I wish I could be closer to, or even close to at all. My novelty depletes. What someone might humor as my engrossing or fascinating personality always leads to This Guy Is 2 Fast 2 Furious / he’s taken things 2 far and hence h3 sc4res me so this is where I’m 0ut. And I am grateful that every person who thinks that gets to immediately move on back to nice things. I own the scrapes and scars. They’re mine. Self-inflicted. But I’m the one who calls and makes the damaging moves. I am the one who forfeits the bond. If my life is a tragedy of human bonding then holy shit I’m Gonna Look Fuckin Cool going down. And I’m taking down as many bad guys and civilian-evacuated buildings as I can with me.
What you’ll always get at one sure point or another, I will ask what I’ve possibly done so wrong to never reach. But I’d be a godfearing dork if I didn’t have my say against futility. That’s what this ridiculous no-regrets-bazooka’s for. I nuke the voids, with that pillow-bearded dork god and his elitist cronies on the receiving end. When again I spit blood at their remains and the rubble, I will again be even more devastatingly and resonantly alone than ever.
Am I still trying? Do I actually convince myself I can reach whatever it is I need? Even when I can never tell how much anything’s really worth? Can I forgive myself enough to maintain this vessel? Should I hold out? Should I believe this Thing exists in my reality? I don’t know Binny. I told you I’d try.
I said I would.