Life for me is vices. You choose a few and you stick with them. You hope against hope that they will be enough to convince you to see the sunrise of tomorrow. It has to be enough, it must be. There is nothing else between these walls to have. There is no bright future to imagine, because no matter where I am, alone or not, I will never be pleased. I can smile, I can laugh, but the second I think beyond that moment…it all dies.
I acknowledge that this place is my own. I gave up my chance to get away. I could have finished college and gotten a degree that I hated so that I could make enough money to move the fuck away. I can still do that now, if I arrange it all carefully, but what does it matter? What do I plan to do? I will have my own house on some deserted lot and live my misery on the fringe of everything, as I have always done. It will be no different. Alone, surrounded…it’s all the same. I can’t get away from myself. All I can do is pick at the threads and try to pull myself apart more quickly.
I want so badly for it to mean something, all of this. Not purpose—I will not search for that—it doesn’t exist. All I want is to wake without regretting it. I want to know that even if I am doing the most mundane of things, it is alright. I want to believe that it is not nonsensical suffering, that there is something here for me that will make it less terrible. I wouldn’t expect good. Hell, I wouldn’t even expect decent. I know it would always be horrible, that the pain would always far outweigh anything pleasant. But I want some fucking ‘pleasant’. Where is it?
I’m beginning to suspect I’ve become numbed to it, any feelings of satisfaction or pleasure. I am the most jaded thing. I find something and I drain it until there is nothing left, until it can’t even bring a hint of relief. What is there after those things have been burned away? Do I find something new, pursue something else? Repeat this, over and over every time something grows tiresome?
Everything has no taste. Bland and fucking dry. I feel like all I have been doing all these years is force-feeding myself justification—reasons to live—in this endless cycle of unstoppable gluttony. I’ve gotten lazy and complacent about it, not bothering to change things up, to explore beyond what is familiar and known to me. Now it’s too late. I can’t taste it anymore; it’s sand on my tongue and means nothing. It doesn’t make any difference now that I need it to survive. I’d still obstinately push the plate away even with that knowledge, because I simply do not wish to tolerate the tastelessness and grit any longer.
The feelings have not passed still. It’s been too long. They’re dogging my footsteps now, waiting, those demons fucking lurking around the corners to come extract their pound of flesh. Come and get it I say. Come take it if you dare. I don’t want it. I’ll take my apathy back over this any day. I’ll take nothing over sorrow. I’ll take numb. At least then I can distance myself from this, see it clearly without the taint of a bitter, unneeded heart.
Put me back in my coma.