Or maybe I don't. Fuck it. Fuck it all. I long for my old death-wish life. Where it didn't matter to anyone if I lived or died. Not really. Everyone would have gotten over it. I would have been doing them a fucking favor. They wouldn't need to worry about me any longer. I would be out of their hair. No more money, no more thought. They could just go live their lives. I refuse to make my pain others pain, until the final absolution of pain. I don't know if I can take the pressure of pretending to be happy all the time. I need an evil outlet. I can't deny that side of me. That's what took me down last time. Fuck my accursed dual nature. It's my cross to bear. Constantly warring inside my head, my heart, and my soul. There is no salvation other than the death. The pendulum always swings the other way. I felt so good yesterday. Then the oppression took over. All of my energy got sucked right down into the depths of my personal hell. Was it the house? Was it just an inevitable progression? Or was it more situational than I care to admit? I am over it? Not bloody likely. I never will be. How can one ever get over the crumbling of a monolithic mountain into the treacherous seas? Mountains shouldn't move, let alone dissolve, but yet there it went. Way down into the abyss; the Mariana Trench of our love. I wrote that tear-stained letter on the spot. I wonder if it's the last real love letter I'll ever write. I sure as hell hope not. But why do I keep sobbing uncontrollably at the thought of him? Is it because he has dug up these long-buried feelings? Feelings I never wanted to feel again. Or at least I thought I didn't. Fuck that. Of course I wanted to feel them again. Love is the only thing that makes life worth fucking living. Love has always ruled my life, but only because I have known unconditional love at such an early age. But like most beautiful things in this world, it is fleeting. It gets ripped away from our child-like hands, leaving us empty and alone. Instead of being such a neurotic asshole, I should probably start appreciating what the fuck I have. Once I figure out whatever that is. Happiness is a God-damned illusion. A hologram. Happiness will never rap upon the macabre's door. Am I destined to forever be unhappy? Am I too omniscient to be happy? Probably. Definitely. Why do I only get glimpses of happiness? That's it. Maybe that's how long excitement lasts. And when excitement fades, it leaves fear in its wake. Is this fear? Fear manifesting itself as sabotage. Perhaps my inner demons are not only evil to the external, but this evil knows no bounds. It is most malicious to its keeper.
Like the tiger that attacks its doting and unsuspecting trainer. It's really planning that all along and everything else the tiger does is just biding time until that point. The lunge after the face is set in stone from the beginning. I do have evil in my genes. It's coursing through my veins. And someone must suffer at its hand. It's just a choice of me or them. Is suicide at that point selfish or is it then heroic? Saving my loved ones and society at large from my depraved madness. I am too quixotic for this world. Suicide is solace. Man, this morning sure devolved fucking fast. What the fuck is my problem? I am looking for things to be morose about? I seek out negative emotions. Like a God damned predatory bird. Swooping down and clutching a fuzzy life-filled woodland creature in my razor-sharp talons. Slicing the jugular of happiness with one deft motion. Letting the blood drip upon the town below. My eyes growing wide and satisfied with each plink-plink of crimson smearing the neutral landscape. Vermillion on wheat. Rouge on chestnut. Rust on pine. Vermillion on the face of the world. Vermillion streaming from my eye. Blood and gore, festering pus-filled happiness. I slice my own throat. Every fucking time. Hand me the straight razor. I want to be happy too. Happy like the rest of you baseless morons. Happy. Happiness is fresh. Virile blood spilled upon the earth. You can be happy too. Bloodlust is the only lust there is. All lust, all passion is fueled by blood. Dripping from my fingertips, dripping from my mouth. There is no need to come up for air. I smear it across my cheek. I will never be satiated, only temporarily full. It's the ancient evolutionary motivation to survive that doesn't allow for contentment. For if we are actually content, we become complacent. Complacency is death. The worst kind. Death by a thousand cuts. Death by chocolate. Death by sheer God damned boredom. What a fucking joke. A great big cosmic joke. It just dangles the threat of happiness in front of us. And like big fucking assholes we chase it round and round the fucking horse track. Thinking one day we will finally catch that stupid carrot in between our big horse teeth. Ha. The real key to happiness is knowing it doesn't actually exist. It only comes through in small and paltry laps. Just barely splashing over your toes. Tidal waves of happiness are a suspicious and cunning illusion. Be wary of them. They are not of this world. They are saline cons, set to knock us off our feet and drown us in a whirlpool of sorrow and disenchantment. It's all a lie. And it gets me every single fucking time. I'm drowning. In fear. In love. In hate. In banality. In illusion. Is there a rock to grasp onto in this swirling eddy? Maybe. It's up to me to let it reveal itself. To not try and move the rocks. To swim away from them in a rush of foolish pride and pseudo-romanticism. Fuck doleur exquise. Fuck this notion that love should equal pain or it's not "real" or worthy. Fuck that life should be tragic and tumultuous. A constant push/pull that inevitably ends in the rope breaking. Why can't love be quiet and sweet? Why can't it be subtle and slow? Pleasant and lovely; silly and light. Gossamer and ethereal. Instead of bitter and fiery. But that fire. It's that fire that burns white-hot in my belly. It's that fire that drives my machine. It's my only motivation besides time. It fuels my emotional firestorm. It greases my creativity and charges my freak magnetism. It lets my life stay interesting. It leaves the backdoor open for craziness. It allows a creative life. But the piper must be paid. Nothing's free. Neuroses, sadness, loneliness, misunderstanding, melancholy, malaise, torpor; these are it's only currency. Fuck you Kristoffersen. Fuck you for nailing that now-cliche line on freedom. I was free for ten agonizing months. With a blaze so hot burning inside of me that I could never sleep. I could never eat. The fire began to eat me alive. I was being burned alive. From the inside out. I was being burned alive. Yet, it was all so cold. The heat of the summer was no match for the iciness of my heart. My dual nature once more realized. My brain is the only thing inhibiting my happiness. It's the only thing standing in the way of living my life. It was easy to have fun and live my semblance of a life when I didn't give a shit about anything. There is no right or wrong in a death wish life. There is nothing. Ve belief in nos-zing. You don't need a conscience then. The crushing loneliness is your only combatant. But then you have your suicide fantasies to comfort you. The sweet midnight suicide fantasies; wild and out of control. Tying those cables around my neck I hung from the ceiling. Tightening it just enough so I could barely breathe, but still feel like I'm dying. Just a little. Just enough. The beautiful, tragic red lines it left around my slender porcelain neck. The image of my battered and broken body lain lifeless across a railroad track. My limbs contorted in the most unnatural and grotesque positions. With the most devilish smile smeared across my mangled face. Somehow a little life still twinkling in my big doe-eyes. Streaks of mascara and blood the only color left. But something stopped me. What was it? Was it the distant idea of this? Was it this? Am I just letting fear take over? I am. Because I know, better than most, how quickly absolute love can dissolve into absolute hate, and much worse absolute nothingness. I can't let that happen again. I refuse. I am stronger and better than that now. I know it's not easy. Nothing worth it ever is. Things scare me when they come too easy. I'm not used to goodness being handed to me. I'm used to having to claw my way, kicking and screaming to get just a little taste of pleasure. I feel like I only deserve it when I worked for it. When I've suffered for it. Love is the only thing worth anything. Buy the ticket. Take the ride. Well I already bought the God-damned ticket. I'm too quixotic not to get hurt. I'm too stubborn not to keep at it. Happiness lies at the next oasis.
I wish the orange-scented morning could last forever. Where no one could touch us. Where the eternal madness doesn't exist. On a plane where there is only purity and slivers of sunlight through leaden drapes. There is no depression, no loneliness, no misunderstanding. Just unspoken love in the form of citrus. Red fingernails dancing among dirty blond curls. A verdant field to lay my head upon. Wildflowers and butterflies flood the landscape. And booming bear growls fill the air with masculine contentment. Nothing else matters in that incandescent world of our own creation. It is a manifestation of our most longed-for desire. What we've always thought we wanted. Finally realized. To exhale out all that toxic death we filled our lungs with for so long. That black, gnarled, necrotic tar caked and encrusted on our most vital organs; choking and asphixiating the passion and essence of life out of us. Out of me. Squeezing, constricting me into submission. Something just barely stopped me from acquiescing. It sure as shit wasn't God. But it was something inexplicable. I was completely faithless. But now I'm not so sure. If God exists, then so exists the devil. If the saint exists, as does the sinner. More dual nature bullshit. Bukowski had it right. When the world makes you hate everyone, especially yourself, just go back to bed for three or four days. Or longer. Fuck the day. I wish the orange-scented morning could last forever.
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