I know that at times, my situation is my own fault. I never like to negate the blame as far as lifestyle goes, because I chose that for myself. I chose isolation, I chose this bland reality of glaring computer screens and endless nights staring into the blackness at the ceiling, somehow wanting something more, yet never truly knowing (or caring for that matter), what it was. It just goes. I just go along.

I think that passiveness is both what I hate and what I love—it is always a draw. When I am passive, I don’t have to face anything; I ignore it, it then is no longer a part of my reality unless and outside influence forces it to be vomited forth once again. It can be buried under my layers of protection, virtually nonexistent. But that it just it, it still remains there, still is there. I forget that at times. It doesn’t just die, but stays to haunt, sometimes because I unconsciously seem to allow it to, a punishment for not being forceful and biting when I should have been.

So in retrospect, I am my enemy. And really, I do not see anything wrong with that. I have disentangled myself from my former life, so that now it is as though it never existed. I prefer it that way; no matter what I say at times, so scathingly of what has occurred, secretly it is my wish to have never endured it. To have been stuck in that hazy reality where it didn’t matter if I was lying, and it didn’t matter if nobody knew or cared. It was good to be surrounded by blatant apathy, as in a sense it kept me human. Back in the days when I believed in morality, I believed in friends and pursuing happiness. When I lied to myself to keep going.

Now I look for the darkest corners, hoping to find something that is more vile than what I have become, more hating, more disgusted, more self absorbed. Something to prove that this isn’t the end of all things, but the start of something that when I die will probably not even be half finished. I can only guess that there must be a million more fathomless pits to fall down, as this never seems to end. When I think I’ve had enough, the floor drops out again. And again, and again. The falling isn’t so bad; it’s the hitting the floor part. You convince yourself to get up again (for fuck knows why), to totter around on sore feet for awhile until you break another floorboard and sink right through. Again. And why, like a moron, you keep getting up again, you simply cannot answer. Human stupidity? A ridiculous sense of hope? Oh you can guess, surely, but eventually none of those answers make sense anymore.

 There is no reason to try again and again except some sort of refusal to accept reality. The reality is that no one fixes their floors. Of fucking course you are going to go through. Accept it. Get a motherfucking parachute, or die on one of the floors when you decide to live up to truth, I suppose. I keep saying that, dying. Ah well, old habits take a long time to die, just like people.