I miss the days when everything was vitriol. I miss the Fight Club days when I had this plan for betterment. I have one now, but it’s tainted by my discontent, my apathy. Does that make it weaker, I wonder, since it holds little magic to me? Do you have to feel something for things to matter? Isn’t that what everything is, feeling? Then what is a lack of it? What does that mean? Does that mean that everything is nothing? I guess that has been the answer all along.
When you let the monster run free what does it ask for first? Or rather, what does it demand? The nature of the beast is pleasure and pain. It’s strange that it’s come to this. We’re free for a moment, don’t you see? This is all it is, all it ever will be. Are you satisfied? I’ve kept your secrets and you’ve kept mine. I love you, cruel animal. You’re the only reason I’ve survived and you’re the same reason I’ve walked so close to death. Ironic, isn’t it? But you tell me I’m safe now, and maybe that’s true. We’ve found a hollow, and now we can wait patiently to strike. We can hunker down and rest, regroup.
I call it the becoming.
Maybe we were meant for better, but if the weak part had a choice, we’d leave to never return. Death is so simple. Suicide is so simple. We never have to fear, because salvation always awaits those who choose to quit the game. It’s not failure, but disinterest.
Or maybe I’m just drunk.