10:15 pm. BP 159 / 104.
The truth is, life is boring. People are vengeful. Good things always end. We do so many things and we don’t know why, and if we do find out why, it’s decades later and knowing why doesn’t matter any more. Yet we push forward in a straight line, calmly surveying the mindscape we call home...the home inside of us. I am quite uncertain tonight. Tonight I type to escape. The bitter taste of the Klonopin that has dissolved under my tongue mixes with the mental picture of me sitting atop a large pile of books saying "it will get better buddy". It won't. We both know that. Let's just smile if we can right?
Mental vs Physical, chicken or the egg type thing. I am empty. My birthday is Monday. When you're young, you always feel that life hasn't yet begun—that "life" is always scheduled to begin next week, next month, next year, after the holidays—whenever. But then suddenly you're old and the scheduled life didn't arrive. You find yourself asking, 'Well then, exactly what was it I was having—that interlude—the fucked up madness—all that time I had before?
I am just floating along right now. Maybe I always have been. Maybe my words, poem, songs etc. were just a scream for severe help. Maybe they were nothing at all. You know, I think the people I feel saddest for are the ones who once knew what profoundness was, but who lost or became numb to the sensation of wonder, who felt their emotions floating away and just didn't care. I guess that's what's scariest: not caring about the loss. Sadly that has become me. I am not afraid of last chapters, well...as long as it is my chapter. Come and get me!
We are changed souls; we don't look at things the same way anymore. For there was a time when we expected the worst. But then the worst happened, did it not? And so we will never be surprised again. No more shock for me Peter. None for me James. Yeshua, where in the hell are you this evening? I am trying.
The room is dark. It is now 10:23. I was watching archer and it all went wrong. Escape and pace, now hunched down and typing...the only light comes from this screen. Hurts my right eye. Sinus issue I think. Fucking SINUS!
I type to outrun it ya know? I have pages of journals of suicide notes from 2002 when this was all new to me. Most times I would start writing them and realize I felt better after writing a while. I kept them all. Funny to look back on. Actually sad to look back on.
After you're dead and buried and floating around whatever place we go to, what's going to be your best memory of earth? What one moment for you defines what it's like to be alive on this planet. What's your takeaway? Fake yuppie experiences that you had to spend money on, like white water rafting or elephant rides in Thailand don't count. I want to hear some small moment from your life that proves you're really alive.