Vomit and bright lights. Cigarette
butts and adventures. Half dead prostitutes, dope fiends, and old
lonely men. It's insane, yes, but at least it has a source. A source
that can be traced, studied, stopped, or simply ignored. But at least
it has a source. I have no holes in veins, no magic toxin in my
blood, I haven't lived through an horrific war, I haven't seen my
loved ones sodomized by the machine. But still, I feel so useless, so
chaotic, so full of passion. I am pathetic, full of reason and
inquiry. Yet still I've managed to romanticize an illogical
lifestyle, a self destructive one, an unearthly, an ungodly and
unsustainable lifestyle. I long to be able to point to a source of my
madness, some external woe. But all I can do is cut open my own chest
and point fingers in the mirror. Giggle, giggle. My face in my
hands, I can't even force out any tears, just air, empty, rank air.
Brave men do not cry, so say the whores
as they bite down hard on the one thing I value in this life. Be
brave for me, so says the queen as she slowly carves out my eyes
because she didn't like what she sees in them. But brave men aren't
psychotic fucks that bow to the whim of a half naked whore on a
throne. Much the opposite, brave tell the sun when to rise, and the
moon to shine full. Brave men stand above their own madness, they
seek it out and cut it off at the source. I am incapable of being
brave, I can't find the source of madness, and this madness is slowly
rotting my soul away. Giggle, giggle. I am wallowing in a brilliant
nothingness, a vivid experience of the greatest dullness the human
imagination could hope to bring forth, a melancholy self-obsessed
romanticized tragedy.
Heroes come and go, but villains
remain. So here I am, fingering the edge of this knife against my
wrist, playing with the trigger of a loaded gun. Don't try and stop
me, Eden rejected me, maybe I'll find love in Sodom, or friends in
Gomorrah. Turn back, and don't look back. I stand on a precipice,
refusing to jump. A man with a rope around his neck afraid to die,
yet unwilling to live. Stagnated filth congealing on the breast of a
beautiful woman. No one loves a lecher, and no one wants to see a
freak in tears.
Nirvana is a wet-dream. A ghastly
fantasy for those who accept the solidarity of this world, and a
wonderful end for those who reject their truest selves. I feel the
need to reiterate old fears, giggle, giggle. Maybe the universe only
seems so grim because I am only focused on a dying star. Maybe I
should pull my head out of the sand and take a deep breath. Maybe I
should pick wildflowers and skip while whistling a happy tune. Maybe
I should blow my brains out and be done with it, so says the one eyed
man who never knew love.
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