Obscure

The changes in mood are killing me. I can even feel it in my body now, this deep ache of exhaustion. When you are away, working, it’s easy to get lost in thought, it’s easy to forget everything but never-ending line of meaningless tasks. I’ve been less low lately. Not well, but at a spot that was almost bearable. Then I wake up yesterday and that feeling of pointlessness was stronger than ever. This numb state of mind and body has overtaken me once again, to the extent that I feel automated. I feel…as though I am not really alive. And why must it be this way? Why does it shift so rapidly? Why, if it is just hormonal, can I not bring myself to change anything?

I’m falling faster and faster, down into the black, all my senses fading–literally. I get so bad at times that food has almost no taste, warm doesn’t feel so warm, and pain is a dull, pointless thing that barely touches me. I don’t understand the purpose of this, I don’t understand what it is that I am asking myself to see. That it can be worse? That I am nothing? That even the smallest of pleasures can be taken away?

Numbness is beyond pain, and somehow it hurts more than anything.  I can’t be emotional. I will die that way, I see that. My worst moments were lived when the numbness was gone and there was nothing but a raw wound. I can’t bear it. I can’t feel. I am so used to being without it, that to experience it is overwhelming.

They say that each day survived is one that makes you stronger. But why is it then that I only find my resolve growing weaker, my mind struggling less and less to evade these thoughts? Am I obsessed with it? Have I become so enamored with an idea that I have allowed it control over my life? The answer I get is probably. I am lazy, I am weak and stupid, and I don’t want to try. What better a way to end that misery than to simply…stop it from existing?

I am sick of apologizing for my selfishness. I am tired of my own inaction. Everything about me is so horrid that I can’t bear it sometimes. I feel smothered by my own self hatred, and even locking myself away in this darkened room isn’t enough to ease it. It just keeps getting worse and worse, to the point where I find myself laying in bed, willing myself to call into work and tell them that I am through. I can’t do it. I can’t do anything, because I can’t stand to be myself, and I am too set in my ways to ever change.  

Every morning I have this fight with myself, and every morning the numbness is all that convinces me to get up. I don’t know what else to do, and sometimes I know I don’t have it in me to finish this. All it takes is a single bullet and one simple squeeze on a trigger, right below the chin. Kaboom, and there is nothing to fret over. There is no job, there are no problems, there is no pointlessness. There is nothing. And most importantly there is no life. And is that so terrible? Do I honestly believe that I make a shit bit of difference anywhere, to anyone? I am not an integral part of anything; I hold nothing together. I have always been something clinging to the fringes of existence, too small and insignificant to ever hold sway.

 And I don’t feel sorry for myself; it was all my own doing. I wanted obscurity and here it is. I would have been out of here a long time ago without it. I am grateful because I know that the day I die I will have accomplished and meant nothing, just like everything else, and at least my one redeemable quality was that I was not stupid enough to deny and fight it.  That will have to be enough. It must be enough.

It is all that we can ever expect.

I don’t have to be anyone.

The food didn’t taste like anything this morning. I didn’t want it. I finally gave up at trying to make it sweet and settled for bland. I ate as much as I could convince myself. I want to be Raymond. I want Tyler to put a gun to my head and see if the next morning I have the best breakfast I have ever tasted. I want to see if I wake up that morning and don’t feel sorry. I want to see if something comes to me in the morning haze, a feeling maybe. I want to wake up and experience something besides dread and a wretched disappointment with myself. 

People are in love with an idea of themselves. Maybe in a sick way, I am too. That vision is supposed to propel us through life, make us desire improvement and recognition for our efforts. We all want to appear better than we are, and as a consequence this gives us motivation to live, to have the satisfaction of not only pleasing ourselves, but receiving praise from others for being so fucking incredible. A vicious little cycle.

But if you don’t care? If that vision is all about being the cruelest person? You must find enough satisfaction in what you selfishly get out of it. I’m not suggesting that it isn’t always selfish, in fact, come to think of it, conventionally this is less so than most visions. In truth, you have to settle for less than everyone else. You have to be alright with the fact that no one is going to understand it or appreciate it as you do.  You have to go it all alone and hope that the monsters that lurk aren’t going to feed off of you in the dark. Your suffering means nothing to anyone, and they will laugh at you and attack you until you are beaten down and weakened. No one will tend to your wounds. No one will regret that they tore that wretched thing down. Ugly things shouldn’t be suffered to live, after all.

And I am not ready. I leapt off the tower of humanity out of fear instead of faith, and there was nothing below to break my fall. I crashed all the way down, condemned to be a mangled heap of something that once was. In my eyes you either accept yourself (even if it is reluctant) or you spend a lifetime doing the job of killing yourself rather than allowing the world to do it for you.

Maybe the true escape is being nothing and having no qualms about it, not being burdened by what you’ve been taught or by whatever inadequacies you see yourself as being afflicted with. Maybe we are being stupid by trying for something that we all know is as pointless as anything else.

All we do is struggle constantly against who we are because we are so enamored with what we could be.

My version of normal?

It’s been an interesting few days, to say the least. I think I’m vaguely getting the hang of it, though I do fuck up from time to time without noticing until someone mentions it. I had a long conversation with this other guy who works in the back with me sometimes. I started trying to fill in the gaps with his English, teaching him new words (he also taught me a little more Spanish). He’s very quick about learning it, so it’s not difficult at all. I say it once and he emulates it, then starts using it immediately in conversation. I catch him standing by the toaster repeating the words under his breath. 

Nearly everyone exclusively speaks Spanish or only one word of English at a time ( a few of the men are much better at it), which leads to a lot of chaos and screaming back and forth trying to figure out if I heard the person right (it’s made even more complicated by very thick accents). I understand parts of it, leftovers from Spanish classes forever ago, but most of the time that isn’t enough to get by, since they speak so quickly to one another I can’t catch it fast enough to register.

Anyway, this guy, he has the typical sort of beliefs about what a person is supposed to do with their life. He speaks fairly good English, though again, I have trouble with his accent combined with the fact that the kitchens are so deafeningly loud, so we usually have to say things twice through all of the beeping ovens and other noise. When I told him about myself, the whole not having friends and not wanting to settle down, he was astounded. I end up finding out that he wants two kids and a wife. But he doesn’t seem done with his line of questioning.

He started asking me, “What are you going to do with life?”

 When I said I didn’t know (I was tempted to say I don’t care, but refrained since I don’t even know this man), he looks even more confused.

“Don’t you want to be somebody?”

I shake my head and shrug.

“Don’t you have dreams?”

I want to laugh. “A house? I don’t know.”

“What you mean you not know?”

“I just don’t.” I’m smiling in that secretive way, but refuse to elaborate any further when he continues to ask.  

He has to go off to do the dishes, and leaves me to man the kitchen. I’m cleaning because there are no orders to fill and all of the food is stocked, so there is nothing to cook. It doesn’t take long before he wanders back, probably not even five minutes. He’s giving me that weird stare that he does, like he wants to say something, but he’s not sure if he should. He’s watching me clean.

I laugh and ask him, “What?”

“It is bothering me,” he says. “It been bothering me.”

“What I said?”

“Yes. You must have dreams. You don’t have kids, there’s no one to take care.”

“No one to take care of me? They’ll probably throw me in a rest home.” I’m laughing, but morbidly, I think to myself that I’ll never last that long, nor would I endure the indignity of not being able-bodied enough to care for myself. I voice none of it. 

He’s shifty. I don’t trust him even slightly, but he helps pass the time and is nice enough. He talks about other people though, so I’m sure he will talk about me. But I’ve decided I don’t care if anyone knows. What does it matter at this point? It is the truth, as much as I am willing to divulge, anyway. 

I finally got to know my manager, even ventured to ask him his name since I couldn’t remember it. I found out about what he wants to do and all of that. We talked a little about college and different degrees. It’s so weird how everyone wants to know your life story. Even the one guy who is rather ill-tempered and sloppy about everything he does, started talking to me about his belief in the degradation of society, which he says is proven by how stupid orders are getting. I thought it was hilariously funny in that pseudo-intellectual way (he was entirely serious). I didn’t say much to him about it. I figure it is best not to let myself be known on that account. The world-hating is for me alone to contemplate.

While making orders, out of the blue, the guy from before asks me, “So what is normal to you?”

I’m not sure what he means for a moment because of the long stretch of insanity wherein everyone decided they wanted food at 9:00 at night. Then it dawns on me that he is continuing where he left off earlier. “You mean normal lifewise?”

He grins.

I put the toppings on the order I’m doing. I stare down at the paper, thinking, deciding. Then I look up at him.

“Me. I’m my own normal.”

Hopeless. Even more of a waste of time.

I understand perfectly well that nothing is fair. I get that it doesn’t matter if I’m depressed or suicidal—supposedly, unless I’m an utter failure, I should want the exact same things as everybody else, regardless of my personal feelings. If I’m depressed, it must be my fault. I should just take pills and stop whining.

But I won’t take pills. I won’t tell anything. Why live when I want nothing of what everyone else prizes so much? Their goals aren’t my own, the will to live is not my own. In all truth, I want nothing of anything; I want as far away from people as possible. I don’t want to participate in their sick little game and pretend to give a shit, because I don’t. I truly don’t.

I was watching a movie with my dad the other day, Jumper. I’m not fond of it, but he wanted to watch it, so I said nothing. He kept going on and on about how the main character should have used his powers for ‘good’. I could feel the little coil of revulsion twisting around in my stomach like a snake. Even he doesn’t get it. We are more different than I ever imagined, and each day that passes, I see that more and more. Everyone always claimed I was just like him, even I have said such things recently, but secretly…I’ve known. I’ve always known. He’s the hero sort…and me? Not so much. 

Heros and villains are practically the same; one has just deluded itself into believing that their purpose serves this thing called “the greater good”. They are only separate and different because of that single fact. But it is a tremendous difference. One has drive and will, the other has a lust for the kill. Generally, heroes are mistaken for villains. Just because a cause is ‘evil’ to one, does not mean it is the same for another. Killing a woman who had sex before marriage is perfectly normal in some cultures. Evil? No, it’s plain mercy to those who wield those beliefs. It is for the greater good to them.   

 I don’t want to save the world. I don’t even want to exist in it. And if I could teleport to where ever the hell I wanted, I would end up on some mountain in the middle of nowhere with a tent and a smile, poor, helpless citizens be damned. Let them suffer. They would turn me away given the chance, every last one. They already have, come to think of it. There are people all around, but the truth is that we are still all alone. So what does it matter? Why does anything matter anymore? This place has no purpose, no reason, and the more people struggle to make one, the more they show their weakness.

I may start attending college again. I haven’t decided yet. But if I do I’ll take five or six classes at a time and finish as quickly as I can. I don’t know if I can bear going back and participating in their useless bullshit again. It’s the people that kill me, more so than their stupid ideas. It’s the fact that they believe in their reasoning so deeply, when I stand back and tell myself again and again that what I think can change in an instant if I see anything the contrary. I contradict myself. And I don’t care. What is wrong with being wrong? Nothing. People don’t like to lose, so such things are hated. But I don’t care. Let me be wrong. Let me be right. At the end of the day it is all the same to me.

Sticks and stones.

I never went to sleep. I must have somehow built up reserves from all the nights—or should I say days—of a mere ten to twelve hours of consciousness. I may ward off the hours, but my hatred and feelings of helplessness toward it all, continue to seep into my skin. I can feel it there, spoiling, infecting like a disgusting pus from a festering wound. It’s not going to end until I’m dead and gone. Pity.

I will say with little doubt that my struggling was worthless; I see nothing coming of the brief two minute interview that was more laughable than serious. I was nothing but a bundle of overexposed nerves, tapping a foot against the leg of the chair I was sitting in, in an altogether vain attempt to hide the shaking of my rebellious limbs. Even the cruelest of conversations with myself could not calm me. Anger boiling in my gut only made the shaking turn to shivers as I waited for doom. I’d have preferred the noose; I wouldn’t have been half so nervous.

Over, done with. Like all things human. Just more worthlessness and stupidity to add to it all, more lines for me to draw in chalk as I tally up the never-ending list of cons that living comes burdened with. I don’t know why I try.

I went to a health food store, and found more joy in sorting through the strange food than I’ve felt in awhile. I was struck by how pathetic that was, that something so positively inconsequential could make me smile. But it all has ulterior motives, strings attached, especially the smiles.  Torture comes in many forms, some glaringly obvious, but easily ignored by outsiders who would traitorously deny me one of the few pleasures I still have left, that I can still call my own. We reach the danger zone, and all I want to do is laugh. They think they know me. They think that there are bones in this body that care and still are capable of compassion. I’ve never considered those ‘heroes” emotions to be ones that came preprogramed; completely learned in my opinion, and therefore nothing but another construct of this place and its cancerous people. I bleed malice these days. All the sleep in the world won’t take the dark circles of weariness from beneath my eyes. It’s been over for so long already.

I play my games for no audience but myself. It’s so blatantly narcissistic. Wait until night, which doesn’t take long anymore. I wake at 6:00 in the evening sometimes. Then it starts: the enduring. Wait, wait, wait. Night falls and I wait some more, for everyone to drift off to sleep, on a plane not connected to this one. It’s the only way my paranoia will leave me even partially; if I have reason to believe I am somehow less observed.

Nights staring at a computer screen. Nothing causes a reaction anymore. It’s all so useless now. Depravity doesn’t mean a goddamned thing, as its cage is the same that holds sway over everything: all in the eye of the beholder. To me, the only thing that is depraved or perverse is the fact that people get up in the morning believing they’re making a difference, or that the little useless shit they do all day somehow piles up on a list that is going to be reviewed after they breathe that lovely death rattle. I revel in the knowledge that it has always been over but they are merely to blind to see it, too vain, too determined, too scared.

I keep finding bits of gold in my self loathing. I find it too in those moments where my own uselessness and unimportance smile malignantly back at me. Yes, I know this. Yes, I accept it. And doesn’t that just make your skin crawl? It angers the darker side of myself, that on my best days I embrace my own worthlessness as though it were the entire point of my existence.  I don’t fight it anymore. It is the one enemy besides breathing that I have finally yielded to. I see now that my dreams were pointless, that planning beyond this is nothing but masturbation. Pining after something you can’t have, waiting for it, planning for it, only to have it torn away like everything else by the harsh winds of reality. It is useless to hope, and I wish to stop doing it. The future will be as bleak as the present; no amount of money or creature comforts are going to shift what already has come to pass.

It will not change the world. Nor will I. But more importantly…it will never change me.

I am already set in stone.

For those who seek help: you’ll never find any….

I wonder sometimes if I have a secret fear of death that I’m not accounting for. I’ve come to believe that it’s that idea that keeps me around, you know, the one that everyone always is so fixated on. Things getting better, or finding something different that suddenly makes me realize it will all somehow be worth it, that misery is somehow redeemed.

Does anyone stop and think about how childish that sounds? Do they understand that this is their own, the one thing that belongs to them, this life? It’s more control than any of these people deserve, but they have it and squander it. I’m not endorsing suicide, I’m endorsing taking control of what you have and doing what you want with it, and to hell with anyone who would dare speak otherwise. You can burn it, cut it, break it, starve it, and no one can stop you.

And the funny thing is, the only ones who do get stopped are the ones who scream bloody murder about it, showing off their deeds to anyone who will take the time to look. And people wonder why suicides are always so ‘abrupt’ or ‘completely unexpected’. Perhaps you just did not look. I would never show myself to anyone, even if I was dying, I would never tell. Because that would mean betrayal, that would mean sacrificing the few secrets I can keep. Note to those who just don’t get it: it’s the quiet ones that go through with it and succeed, not the whining lunatics searching for attention and a few chapters to add to their bland life story.

Everyone wants to think it’s their business. Ha. If I want to die, it’s my choice. Just like it’s my choice if I want to fuck or bleed or write bullshit down for people to read. But it’s all for me, always has been. It’s so I feel better…. I’m just so tired of a world that feigns ignorance, that screams about anger when they don’t even take the time to understand what they speak of. Who is the selfish person, the one who dies, or the person who begs the other to live when it is nothing but pain? I’ve said this before, but I don’t care. Selfishness is a matter of perspective.

We’re our own saviors. I’m my own personal jesus. There’s no one that’s going to die in my name, or walk through the bowels of this hell for me. But I would, for me. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, now would I? This is about living for yourself, accepting that no one else is reason enough to stick around for. You live for you, or not at all. To live for someone else is nothing but a bastardization of life and what it’s meant to be: enjoyment and lots of pain. Only for yourself, always for yourself.  People will come and go, but you will always remain.

There reaches a point…where it just isn’t worth it.

This is going to be very misanthropic, and honestly, I’m going to convince myself not to care. I always try to avoid going too far, revealing what I really think, but there’s just been too much going on lately for me to keep silent about it.

Life could be shitty, but nearly perfect, if there simply wasn’t anyone in my life. I realize that sounds like something an angsty teen would say, but the truth is, every problem that has been arising has been due to someone else’s negligence or lack of self control. I hate to lay the blame on other people; my own actions put me where I am today, I know that, that was all a result of my decisions. But what I don’t feel any regret about, is blaming someone for something they did do, that they did have control of.

I don’t want involvement with other people, on almost a holistic level. There are days where I don’t even want to watch television because I don’t want to see “normal” life, “normal” people. I don’t live “normal”. Chances are, when I wake up, I don’t know what time it is or what day of the week it is. I don’t care if tomorrow is election day, or if someone died yesterday. If it isn’t within my small scope of existence, in truth, it does not matter to me. Call it cruel, stupid, ignorant, whatever, but I do it for a reason: when I lived “normal” I couldn’t stand it. It drives me insane, and I mean that. It does something to my head, makes me stop ticking. It’s like being shut off, with an automated person taking over. I do things, but they don’t matter, I talk to others, and it doesn’t matter.

This life is based of off cooperation. It was designed that way. It’s not about the individual, no matter what people may try to sell you. I can’t escape having to interact. I can’t run away from my life without serious consequences.

I think there is a part of me that must need some sort of interaction at this point. That is why there’s this blog and a million other avenues through the internet that I constantly abuse. Secretly I keep believing that I’ll wake from my little nightmare. Perhaps that is why I haven’t burned all that many bridges. I keep thinking I might need them someday.

Someday? What day? I don’t even want to make it to 20. That was one of the main reasons I no longer attend college; I didn’t have a “foreseeable” future. I didn’t want to waste 3 years trying to earn a paper that I honestly…was never planning on using. And that’s the truth. I wasn’t sure I would be around another year. How do you say to your parents: “I don’t want you paying for my college because I don’t plan on living long enough to complete the degree, let alone use it”?

The point of this ridculousness, is that life was made so that it is about people interacting. We, as human beings, have made it this way not only out of ease, but preference. And I just fucking don’t want any part of it. I never really did. People are worthless, they fix nothing. They make me feel worse instead of better and further my hatred, so why bother? Any day I want, I can delete all that I’ve written. It can all be gone. I can turn it all off and never face it again, as though it never was. The great thing is, you can do that with your life too. Flip a switch and off it goes.

You know when you close your eyes and make a wish? God’s the guy that ignores you.

Not that you should be asking him for anything anyway. Too needy for my taste. Why should I ask someone to do something for me, if I know that it costs? Nothing comes without a price, without loyalty. There is no such thing as people giving to one another freely. They always get something out of it, some payoff. Maybe it isn’t openly apparent, but it is there, waiting to be discovered. We’re all selfish, and really, there’s nothing wrong with that. What bothers me is when people go to extraordinary lengths to conceal it.

Like God. He has a whole book telling you why you should follow him. No one ever asks, “Hey, what does God get out of it?” He gave us life, so we must pay him back? Is that the idea? Yes, well, he also gave us suffering, and pain, and hate. He hates. Read a hundred fucking pages and you can feel it, seeping from the pages like a poison. Hate’s good, but not when you spend your life trying to deny it, calling it evil, calling it dark. Hate is the brightest light in existence. There’s more hate than anything else. Embrace it. Love it.  

I never asked him to live. I don’t owe him anything. I also never asked him to die for my “sins”. They aren’t sins to me, they are life sustaining activities. I’d have nothing else otherwise, because I sure the fuck am not going to bow down and lick someone’s boots. He died so that people would worship him. He died to become dictator of the world. And let us not forget he can come back again any time he pleases. It didn’t matter if hedied. He’s immortal after all. He can just impregnate some other virgin and start all over if he wants. I only get once. That cocksucker can just get killed off, and suddenly, “poof!”. He’s a martyr. Savior. Benevolent, selfless, you cannot apply those words to something like that. He’s just as human as the rest of us, with flaws and stupidity and biases, and most of all, a desire for power. Mr. Megalomania. Mr. Sadist. Mr. Fascist. Mr. Fucking Bigot.

People throw bible quotes in your face, tell you to look it up. Try to prove it with The Word. All you do is give me more fuel. More reason to hate it, hate the confines, this fucking little prison. I don’t hate the people, no, not like I used to. I just hate him, the hypocrite. The one who does it and gets away with it with a sickly yellow grin. People are always going to have ideas I hate, oh well. At least it gives me something to bitch about, right?

This is the way things are going to be. You will cry all alone, and it doesn’t mean a thing to him, to anyone. We’re all disposable and useless, yet we still live acting like we mean something. It’s just an excuse. Just a lie. We can’t even accept our own selfishness unless we coat it with something aesthetically appealing. Dress up that neat little pile of shit, make it look pretty, less self centered. Denial. Everyone is in constant denial.  

You’re here for five minutes of pleasure, and a lifetime of pain. Take it or leave it.

Tear out the last page.

I think it’s interesting that when people start something, they generally can’t stop. It seems to be an aspiration to not only to complete things, but to discover how they end. Verily, what is so great about reading someone else’s ending? Take books for instance. A lot of times I pick up books that I never have any intention of finishing. Yes, I started reading it for a reason, but it’s fleeting; only lasts a day or two, or sometimes, mere minutes. I have a short attention span when it comes to literature, I suppose because there is usually a happy ending involved. Not that happy endings are a bad thing, but a lot of the time, given the context, the characters, it just…doesn’t fit. It stinks of fantasy. I hate that it doesn’t have realism, believability. If characters were constantly risking their lives the entire book, chances are they aren’t going to live to the last chapter. IN A REAL WORLD. These are books of course, which are made to please people, not so much to make them think or change their perspective (though those types exist as well).

Call it bitter and cynical, but the moment a character does something I don’t like, I’m considering dropping the book. What you get a lot are the, what I like to term, the “stand around” characters. They are our hero for the story, always after some unattainable goal, yet every time they are in a bind they go lifeless as a beached whale, and kind of lay there suffering waiting for some nice beach-goer to shove them out to sea again (meaning they wait for the situation to arise and change whatever they are trying to change rather than pursuing that change for themselves). They come off as a protagonist, but truly they are nothing but a bunch of typical ideas that aren’t put to use until it is almost absolutely certain they are going to die.

Harry Potter, for lack of any other well-known character (considering I can barely recall the last time I read an actual book [great personal recommendation, don't you think?]), is one of those types. He has ideas, a lot of them, but they don’t get put to use until the very last book (which there are seven of, mind you). He gets randomly pushed into situations out of his control, yet he never really…goes after them for himself, he has to be coaxed. That’s what I always hated about him; he was too much of a pacifist. He never took what he wanted, he just stood around waiting for things to happen and didn’t become anything of a ‘hero’ until he was pushed hard enough to get furious. And he reallyhad a long fuse, likely for the sake of more books. I always preferred Snape to Harry, because though he was little more than a petty bully on the outside, he was constantly spinning webs and doing what he believed for his own reasons. There’s something to be admired in being the person no one ever sees coming.

At times, even when you do have the ending you were hoping for, you suddenly come to the realization that it wasn’t what you truly wanted. I wonder sometimes if my penchant for terrible endings (hence High Tension, The Devil’s Advocate, The Ninth Gate, etc.) , is just a cover for my love of good endings. Like that maybe what I think I want…isn’t really the truth, it’s simply my thoughts on what I want.

Take for instance, the book version of “Hannibal”. The ending, though many say they hate it, was exactly what I was hoping for. It was happy in that disgusting, “holy-fuck-I-can’t-believe-I-wanted-the-serial-killer-and-the-too-moral-FBI-agent-to-end-up-together”. The funny, ironic part though, was that when I actually read the ending, I HATED it. Not because it wasn’t what I wanted—it was precisely what I had secretly wanted, but having it done, reading it…. I despised it. I was so confused when I finished that book, but later I figured out why it bothered me so much. Hannibal and Clarice could never end up together. It just doesn’t work. She can’t be brainwashed, and he can’t be ‘tamed’. It just doesn’t happen, even in the most idealof situations. It’s so blatantly fake that it hurts the eyes to look at. For that reason I finished it kind of sickened. I felt like the people I believed in were ruined.

I think in the end the grand schemes we come up with in our minds are always better. I could have dealt with not finishing the book and assumingthat somehow Hannibal and Clarice live happily ever after, or that Harry Potter somehow managed to kill Voldemort and so on. It probably would have been better too, because all I would need is a feeling. Sometimes those are just so much more powerful than words can ever convey, and make us hold onto the hope that our stupidest of wishes can really be granted, and somehow magically be made to work even when in reality, they shouldn’t. The world works that way with books, and really, it can work that way with life as well. You can tear out the last page yourself, or sometimes it gets torn out for you. Or you can just go until the end and hope that it will be something you find relatively agreeable.

Life has no purpose.

Why does this have to continue? Why didn’t I just die in the womb, back when I was nothing but a blob of seemingly meaningless tissue? I think that nothingness, that lack of purpose, it has tainted everything that I know. Not because I wanted it to, but because I finally stopped denying it. I ceased to pretend that every little thing I do means something; it doesn’t, not really. When I die, such things will not matter, will they?

I have no illusions, and that is the problem. People live through ego, I do too, but in a very different, singular way. I don’t feign happiness. I don’t have to lie about the world and the people in it in order to keep breathing—I have proved that through these years. But in the end I come to the conclusion that there is nothing for me to do here. I have grown bored, bored and unstimulated. I feel as though I am in a white room of white furniture; there is no contrast, no color, nothing. I keep living, merely because I don’t know what else to do, and cowardice keeps me from latching with a death grip onto darker options.

I say the same things over and over again, as though I hope to convince myself, to fully appreciate just how little impact I have on anything, and how it would not make a difference were I to just end very suddenly. People would cry, then they would move on. Maybe then they would see that I have never really been here anyway, I’m just a faded memory.

I realize now that I breathe because this body lives, not because I aspire to be something, or hope to find some sort of purpose. It is all pointless. I am pointless. I just want to feel alive again. I want to careabout this instead of avoiding it or shrugging it off, or leaving it for this stupid fucking piece of shit blog. Nothing I have tried works; I just see no reason, again and again, and I chastise myself for even thinking that I should have some sort of purpose in this place. There isn’t one, there never was. I’m not even scared of that. What scares me is that I am getting to the point where I want to die not only because of sheer misery, but because I’m absolutely fucking bored out of my mind in this place. It isn’t for me, it never was.

Everything feels so incredibly wrong. I’m wrong. And it just keeps going, apathetic to me as I am to it.