Today, I realized the vast triviality of this, my slighted and banal persuasion of flesh. The forever-temporal nature of my body, heart and mind. The engines of life throttle static charges of electric currency down writhing veins of existence, and while some people may act as power stations or transistors, I am a cable, conveying meaningless dialogue to meaningful people. I decay at a feverish pace; lifeless and incongruent, nothing but a messenger performing a Boolean task with complete and utter insignificance.

I feel like an archeologist who, fired from his position due to his name being dropped by a porcelain doxy, now unearths the tangled bones of his deceased pets in his lonesome vegetable garden. Kept company of himself, tortured by the thing that he cannot ever escape.

Animals sacrificed to enrich the soil, to aide the proteins of the plants, and to force this insatiable heartache into a perfect circle. The torpidity in motion is like a shockwave in standstill, an inescapable barrier of my mental doom that waits at every possible end. I’m contained in a single maze, a spiral, a game, and I am kept in a forever and unending scramble away from my self, the grave, apathetic, malignant microbe which divides at every failure that I encounter.

In essence, I have found a law so oppressive that the law devours itself by its own self-actualization. By choosing to exist, it is denied life. In my time, I have found commonplace of all the most decadent and terrible crimes. Greed, lust, and an enguzzlement of envy, fueled by lie after lie after lie, the pigfat from my bloated belly greases the churning gears of all that I do.

I got forgiveness for what I am, and what I have done. I still feel sick. I saw the doctor, and I take the medication. Still feel sick. I still eat the little green pellets of rat poison. No way out now. Still sick. Still in hell.

It’s been years, now.

When I am dead, you will all continue on, to live, work, play and prosper. You will meet lovers, girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands and wives, and you might even raise a family. I won’t. Found narcissistic and repudient, graves dug, I descend. My selfish and bombastic nature will have ended, and nothing of this earth will care to mark the difference. Failure found; even with my life as collateral, like selling all my possessions to find I haven’t the credit to purchase stability and contentment, my life is not enough to barter with happiness.

The edge of death isn’t fiery or chaotic. It’s placid. My life is a tasteless blur of work and sleep, blended into one acidic paste. I could add wings and gills to this, make it into some romantic statement and say that I’d die for some vague statement, but it is unavoidable, the reality is simple: I just want to die. No celebrations, no funerals, no more care and no more sweat.

And now that I have the money for trying the drugs that killed off the rest of my family, I have no connections. And I can assure you that when I have spent my money trying to impress myself or others with useless toys or self-destructive trips abroad, I will finally meet a connection. But even then, as so many have shown me, I haven’t got the balls to do what needs to be done.

Where there is a whim, there is a way.

All my input and output is worthless, I know this now.

Hell.

W.