Sometimes you wake up but you don’t want to wake up you just want to roll over and fall back asleep because you hate your life and it’s all black and everything just stinks and you feel like a bad page of poetry written by some lonely talentless teenager but you realise that you’re not. You’re a fully grown man who has simply lost his will to keep on keeping. Yeah. You’re a bad page of poetry written by the sweaty pen of some pimple-spangled teen.
And you wonder why you keep on going what the point is if there is any sort of light at the end of the tunnel or where the fuck the tunnel’s end actually is. You kick yourself because you feel like it’s all your fault. You don’t work full time and you don’t live or lead a normal life and you know that you ca’nt you knew it when you were small you knew that you could do things really quickly and easily but that doing them stressed you out and that doing them required your attention and that you just didn’t have any attention to give. That’s just how you are and that’s just how it is but you still hate yourself and your life and everything in your life because of it and what the fuck is the point of going on.
And you feel lonely because it’s not that no one understands you but that no one really gives a shit or wants to understands you. If you want to feel understood you just pick up a book and read classic literature because a few of those weirdos understood you because they were a lot like you. But it’s not about being understood; it’s about people giving a fuck to understand you. And not even your close friends really give a shit and your partner does but it’s just for whatever fucked up warped reason not enough. And most your family feels like a different species of mammal and people around you feel like they’re from a different planet and it’s fucking lonely. And so you write.
And then you remember that writing is what got you into this mess in the first place. Writing is what gave you hope that your passion a passion you never knew could be pursued. And you think fuck, fuck fuck fuck. I’ve been doing this for so long now and seen absolutely no reward not financially at least and you wonder why, why why why the fuck am I still even bothering with this self indulgent practice that only barely keeps me saner than I ordinarily am which still isn’t any where near a point you’d call sane. And you remember that you love writing but apparently it doesn’t love you because it’s a fickle piece of the life that you so desperately want to end.
And ending it isn’t an option because the guilt for the pain you’ll cause others probably, I guess, would anyone even care? That guilt keeps you and your pretty perfect little fucking wrists in tact and then you resent people even more because they tie you to the cesspool, you tie yourself to this cesspool, you are a cesspool.
And then you try something different and it fails and you get rejected and you think you were used to getting rejected but you realise that it doesn’t get any easier, rejection, rejection rejection rejection doesn’t at all get any easier – you just get used to it, you just become more willing to submit yourself to the potentiality. Of it. Of rejection.
And you know that you are a reject a nomad a wayward spirit a fuck wit a door knob a fragmented of this collective turd known as society known as earth you know that you are a reject and this knowledge that you used to find comfort in has turned cold and sour.
You ask yourself what the point is to keep on going you ask yourself and you keep asking yourself even though you already know that there is no fucking point that there is no fucking point so stop asking the damned question. Sometimes things are okay but most of the times things feel like they’re dead. Like you’re dead. But you’re not. And you’ve got to keep on going.
And you convince yourself that there will be light at the end of the tunnel that there is an end to this tunnel in which you’ve found yourself that this bottomless well isn’t actually bottomless and that it will all, one day, pay off. And you convince yourself that living a life that doesn’t forever desire little more than a bed and a dark space will squeeze out of the blackness of your vacuum chest and suck you into some less dire land where living day to day week to week month to month meal to meal isn’t. Is not.
But it’s bullshit because you just know it’s bullshit. Nothing is guaranteed. Nothing is certain. Even uncertainty isn’t particularly certain. And so you roll back over into your warm pillow and you drool and you bite and you cry and you pull and you do everything that you can do to keep on fucking going because that’s what you have to do. If there’s one thing that you have to do it’s keep going.
