I mean, You add the act to the a masterclass of dramatic music and a morose backstory et Voila: another Shakespearean tragedy collecting dust in the dungeons of many a memory castle until its biblical ashen oblivion. Pathetic.
On the other side of the faceless coin, I stripped suicide from its fineries, its theatrics and its orchestra and accepted its nakedness for what it’s not; it is not my cowardice nor my bravery, it is not my well deserved catharsis and it most definitely is not my long awaited salvation.
Why then?
The meds? The Colours? The depression and attention deficit? The 9 to 5. The highway drive. The bus. The rent. You, him, they, us. I could tell you that it is any or all of the above but it’d be a lie.
It is just me. Aye.
I.
I, I, I adore and condemn I, insecure and lost I, Grey I.
I am just bored, you see.
Deadeyed and hardened by the consequences of conscious colourlessness, I survive.
Yet I am not chewing at my broken nails nor laying on the cold floor in a puddle of my own making.
I am just done, you see. The self conscious, self righteous and self obsessed I has reached the final destination of the fear and loathing train going: Choo fucking Choo.
It’s nighttime once again, for years upon years, every God forsaken night, I curse the day I was shat into this fucking existence. I do realize that my suffering fails in comparison to others’, yet it remains My suffering and I am not planning on comparing.
I do not have days any longer, I merely have one damned day wherein events repeats themselves; from pussying out of asking the one that mirrors me to enjoy the company of the lecher,I, to reflecting upon countless failures as a human, to questioning whether I should end my life or not. The why is obvious, the what is needless and the how is only a technicality.
Drinks are hastily poured into my mouth, not in search for a happier present but in pursuit of momentary absence, the words fill the papers, not to document the perpetual melancholy but in comical hope that the lifeless letters would ease the pain, lust is dominant, not to satisfy a primal need for pussy but simply because lust seems more realistic than affection, especially in my case, and the only reality that awaits me is my expected demise.
Well hidden under a mask of gigantic ego, and well dressed in holy garments, the facade continues, my addiction to darkness grows and my eagerness for the grave is apparent in my eyes and in my writings, unsurprisingly, those who choose to delve into either never seem adamant to repeat the act.
I remain watchful and attentive to the human behaviour, for humans are as fucking disgusting as they are interesting and because watching others, in conflict or in camaraderie, is obviously more appealing than the continuous need to spit on every mirror I see my face in. Pathetic. Lethargic. Stagnant.
I take my bitter time to pontificate the effects of my presence in this wretched universe on other living beings, from the disappointed eyes of my father who has kindly busted his behind to kindle an heir to his throne, only to find cigarette burns on my lungs, alcohol stains on my liver and a general neglect towards his art, to the mother, mourning the years spent in conscious confinement in order to bring a saint into a theoretical heaven, only to be cursed by the self loathing, I, who wouldn’t hesitate to jump in the depth of a supposed oblivion, to the younger brother who was unconsciously waiting for the wisdom or guidance of a sibling, only to find that the elder, I, has chosen a more solitary path of selfishness, to the stranger who needed healing, who longed for my words to immortalize her, only to be awe-stricken by my need to be salvaged, to the one I would not pursue due to idiotic social rules and restrictions, to distant friends, to broken bonds. My reflection never ends, so I write and I write, to escape reality to a more familiar and controlled environment. To no avail.
Stop. Drop. Roll. Write. Weep. Mourn and slowly decay.
This is my story, I dare not assume you give two flying fucks but writing is the only thing action I can currently perform.
Suicide.
The Flaky Derelict 