“Man is the only creature that consumes without producing. He does not give milk, he does not lay eggs, he is too weak to pull the plough, he cannot run fast enough to catch rabbits. Yet he is lord of all the animals.”—
“The blue sky is an illusion created by the sun to hide an infinite black void. When you die the worms eat your brains. There’s no God to save you and Jesus Christ couldn’t even save himself.”—David De Void
It’s been five years. Five long, depressing years. I was a whole person before that shit hit the fan. Now I’m just pieces, the leftover ones. It gets comfortable after awhile, not being whole. You forget what it’s like to function with all the pieces. It almost feels normal, almost. You learn to adapt. I’m just a toy now, feelings sold seperately. Bend my limbs and fool with my hair. Pop my head off and reveal the hollow parts. Eighteen doesn’t feel as free as I thought it to be. I spend my days in fading comas only to wake up to maybe shove some glutin filled foods into my fat mouth or take a piss to empty my overly bloated blatter. I don’t get my nails done or my hair did. I don’t wash my clothes let alone my body as regularly as I should. My brain never turns off, turning conscience thoughts into vivid dreams while sleeping. I can’t escape what bothers me. I blur the lines with drugs and keep myself warm with alcohol. I don’t need the comradary. The closest I’ve ever come to a friend was my pyschiatrist and she was paid to be around. She knows what grinds my gears and makes me tick….based on events and situations I’ve chosen to share with her. Fourty-five minutes to spill my guts. As soon as I sit down I would go right to business. Fuck the small talk, I only want to talk about the things I can’t stop thinking about, or in some cases the things I’ve forced myself to stop thinking about. The more I share, the quicker I heal. It’s amazing all of the ways your mind independently figures out in order to save yourself. You dismiss common feelings without a second thought. It’s the kind of thing where you don’t cry because subconciously you know that if you start, you’ll never stop. Present time doesn’t exist in my world. Every thought that has danced feverishly in my head for the past eighteen years has been dedicated to unburying the past. Let me tell you, I’d be better off digging a hole to China. I never understood why the past seems to linger. It happened, nothing you can do about it, and yet it still remains the focal point. A lobotomy sounds more applealing the more the days slip through my fingers. The idea that I am infact the only self-aware creature roaming the planet doesn’t seem so far feched. Afterall, every desicion, every word, every emotion that comes out of someone else’s being seems to be directly pertained to me. It’s almost like a painfully bad movie. I’m the main character and everyone else is just a space filler, an extra.
“… That’s what’s wrong with the world, you know. So many of us shouldn’t have ever been.”
He paused and sighed.
“We’re like ghosts,” he said, “like mirror-ghosts, really. Instead of spirits without bodies, we’re bodies without spirits. Empty shells with the wrong persons trapped inside. Or with no one inside at all. Mirror-ghosts. Half a million, half a billion, geez, half a world probably, of mirror-ghosts. Just bodies taking up space, walking around empty.”
“It’s because I’m alone. If I could just feel it, it would be different, because I would not be alone. But if I were not alone, everybody would know it. And he could do so much for me, and then I would not be alone. Then I could be all right alone.”—William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying (via quotewhore)