i’m finding it hard to eat. vegetables taste like they’re rotten. meat doubly so. i can feel the mashed up remains of putrefying flesh turning and gurgling in my stomach and i have to fght the uge to be sick. my throat burns. surely it’s the remnants of my soul i can taste on fire. i am jsut a shadow of what i used to be. i miseed an opportunity a long time ago – i see that – a fundamental and yet incconspicuous chance to take my life where it should have gone. whther that was success or death i now no longer know. i now no logner have the energy to care. i could end my life now but i lack even the interest in doing that. i am not a coward because i no longer even know what courage is. i live every day, increasingly, without feeling anything. wasting -that is all this is. wasting flesh, wasting time, wasting away. this. is. not. life. and yet i lack the will or interest to make any of this better. why is nothign better. why am i cocooned, embamed, buried alive in my own body, in my own mind? why does having lived no time at all feel like i have lived too much. can i even make you understand? can i make you care? can i make myself care? you see, i can’t even write this. i can’t write anything anymore. it once used to come so easily, and with such great certainty. now it’s all guesswork. all done with mirrors and tricks of the light and the smile of a conman. i’m just reading out the words i found in something like a magician’s book once. i have no idea what they mean. i can’t put them all together. i do not crave death. i do not. i simply hate my life. i smply can’t stop believing that there must be something else. something more or something less – i don’t care, just something different. something that surely makes sense. this urge to be sick again. the sickly sloppy pizza left half eaten on the plate. just looking at the charred flesh and the watery pineapples sends bile pooling at the back of my throat. wasted food. wasted money. you have to make the best of everything. you have to make the best of decay. right now i know where i could go and what i could let happen. i could just go there, right now, and all of this could end. and i know it would, and i know i could do it. so why don’t i? why don’t i? do i want to live, is that it? do i secretly enjoy the squalour? am i just a coward through and through – not afraid of endings but simply scared of action? i don’t have anyone to talk to. i don’t have anyone who understands. everyone’s too afraid to admit they know nothing. they’re all too afraid to admit they don’t care. i wouldn’t care. why should anyone else? why can’t someone else? i’d rather the honesty thn the saccharine. i’d rather the truthful indifference than the constant well meaning gawp of the uncomprehending. if my mother can’t hug me and tell me everything will be okay – if i have no lover’s arms to lose myself in and take a breath from the world, then how can polite concern possibly save me? i lost my spark and it’s gone, forever. how can anyone else truly know what that feels like? how can anyone else know what it feels like to live like a corpse and feel yourself achieve nothing but rot, all around you – the stench of yourself and the sight of even the food you must eat turning your very stomach? i am going to make myself sick and get this rotting flesh out of the acid burning inside of me. then i will go to that place and stare it in its absent face. i will imagine myself there and see if that thought brings me any comfort, any peace. no. will i do any of this? i will not. i will just stay here. i will just resign myself to inaction. i do not fear death because i died a long time ago.

• This entry was posted on Sunday, February 11th, 2007 at 6:43 pm and is filed under automatics. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.