I feel so tired.
You have an average of seventy four years to make something important happen.
You’d better hurry, because the odds are, you’ve already spent almost half of those years and you haven’t made your impact where you wanted to.
Nothing I do really matters.
On the flip side of the coin, you probably have actually made a huge difference in the life of someone but you’ve failed, time and time again, to give a shit about what you’ve done for other people. It’s the tragedy within your human nature. Though you fulfill others you still thirst for your own happiness. It’s not just you. It’s everyone. But we’re talking about you here.
It’s not going to come, though, so you should just forget it.
I haven’t thought about it in seconds.
You seek, you strive and you don’t yield: Tennyson said that and it made a great deal of sense, but still you sit with your head in your hands at the end of the day, missing something. Not knowing what’s missing, you take a drink of wine, a shot of whiskey; two, three, five, seven, eleven. Drink to the prime. It doesn’t seem to have an effect, except to make you more emotional and withdrawn.
I’m more sensitive this way. Things make sense.
It’s a hot, white sickness. You stretch and breathe and squint your eyes against the bright fluorescent lights. You rub your hands on your oily face and squeeze your eyes but your mouth takes like vomit and you’re not any closer to finding the right path.
I’d be sick if I didn’t do this every night.
There’s no God in that bottle, puppet. He’s not there, but you’re going to look for him anyway, aren’t you?
I’ll find Him somewhere.
Everyone eats some of their demons, and you’ve eaten your fair share. When something makes you feel good you consume it. Happiness has to be nearby, it just has to because everyone else is happy, aren’t they? It has to be close by.
But then you wake up and the happiness is replaced with a skull filled with sawdust and eyes filled with fine sand. You’ve been in a fight but you’re the only one who threw punches.
God, I feel like hot hell today.
There’s this longing and it won’t leave you alone. Everyone around you is an antagonist, aren’t they? You spar with them verbally, never truly enjoying anyone’s company. Who’s the next person that will take a swing at you? Who is the next person that will challenge The King?
But you won’t come down from that tower for anyone, will you, puppet?
No, I don’t compromise for anyone.
It’s time to go. It’s time to find your usual dosage. It’s just the same drug you always take. It’s a gentle puppeteer and it doesn’t need you to apologize. It doesn’t need you to be responsible. You can fall away into it, and it will always love you. It’s a sexy witness to your suffering.
Why am I always so sad?
You’re probably screwed up in the head like the rest of us, puppet. It’s not your fault, though, remember. It’s society, or your parents, or your school, or the fact that you don’t get laid much, or the fact that you play video games. Nothing’s your fault..
It takes you awhile to find the right music for the occasion, doesn’t it? But once you find it you know. Maybe it’s Portishead. Maybe it’s Stabbing Westward. Maybe it’s Cold. Maybe it’s The Cure. Maybe it’s Blue October. Whatever it is, it isn’t happy, is it? But it’s perfect.
We all cry to different music.
I cry to everything these days.
Listen to the songs you can’t sing, but wish you could. Your vision is narrowing, so it won’t be long now. Stumble in and fall into the abyss. The happy drugs flow through your veins and you’re numb now. You feel better than you ever have. Before you go out, you’ll write some cryptic, pseudo-intellectual Facebook posts and you’ll be off to Neverland. It’ll be perfect.
I don’t want to sleep yet.
Oh, but you have to, puppet, you have to. You’re so tired.
If you wake up tomorrow, you get to take your medicine again. You get to think about what you’re never going to do. Drink yourself away. Celebrate nothing.
There’s that music again.
Shhhhh, now, child. It won’t be much longer.