Does it make sense to continue when the pain is so ripe? It is so vicious that an emptiness is left in its wake. I think of different ways to do it, every night. I fantasize about shooting myself in the head, taking too many pills and even walking in front of a truck. I think about other ways as well. It does get that bad, you know. It’s almost unbearable at times, and no one understands just how difficult living is. It’s hell, as if hell was a hollow place stuck in repetition. So, does it make sense? What meaning comes from this endless misery? Mein Kamph…
I know you wonder why it hurts too much. I have no simple answers and that only makes it more painful. There are too many words and too many images inside my head. I have a thirst for too many things, to boot. There is definitely a stimulus overload, an attack upon my senses. At any moment, someone could walk through my bedroom door and ask me what I was doing. I couldn’t tell them because I have forgotten what this story as supposed to be about.
Last year, I thought I was Cinderella. I lost my shoe in the midst of monstrous machines, grinding and molding steel all around me. A blue-eyed prince pretended to save me and in the process cut off my head for the queen. I was no longer Cinderella, but Alice. In the looking glass, I saw the truth. My face was not mine, but another. At midnight, when I was still on the verge of turning from Cinderella mindset, I turned to the prince in order to tell him my secrets. It was a time when I knew what I wanted and felt like human. It was betrayal, the night before he killed me. I knew it was too deep and he might drown without my unwilling sacrifice.
That was a year ago, wait, maybe two, or no, it was three. Time has passed, I have disentigrated and something happened to my muse. I cannot saw the darkness is gone, because it coaxes me to end it all. The darkness is different, and I think it doesn’t grow in the same vessels as before.
In times such as this, my words do not make sense. I think it is because the filing cabinet was tipped over, spilling the contents across the floor. Cinderella and the prince came waltzing in, scattering files all across the room. They didn’t care how messy they were or how their actions would bring devious consequences. The wind blew twice, no thrice and the paper flew into the winds of time, scattered among the grasses in the field, between the pines and deep within the dark corners where the fairy hides.
I want to end it all, I do. I am in so much pain. Every day, full of sunshine and glorious blue skies, I see darkness. I hear despair, my chest is hollow in a dull thudding ache. I want to die, die as they died, all of them. All the humans die and it is over. Whether there be heaven or hell, nothing or nothing, I want to die. There is no point in fighting this war. I have no solution. I have no plans.
I have no art to spare. There is nothing left here.
But, of course, that’s how I feel tonight. Tomorrow, on the other hand, I could right as rain and bright as the sunshine’s smile.
I am unpredictable and utterly confused. There are few constants for me, they are dark, they are sordid and they are Godlike.
Till morrow then…