February 24th, Two A.M. in Death Valley . . . Again

February 24, 2016 Day of Harassing Sadness

I am feel as if I will never get my life on track. It is as if there is no right answers, or at least answers I will believe, which come to me with ease. I am once again, at the crossroads of my life. Standing bewildered in the middle, thinking to myself “Wouldn’t it be nice to quit?” To stop this wasting of time. Either live happily or don’t live at all. There are only two outcomes. I will no longer roam the streets a ghost with flesh and blood. Haunting the living, and flirting with death. What the hell am I? Was I sent here to torment the world? Am I simply a draining, insecure animal? – A beast with a quiet mind. This, is again, a question I am unwilling or unable to answer. I feel like killing myself in the most painful way; though, I find myself to be too frightened or too lackadaisical to follow through. Of course, when have I ever followed through with anything? I am indecisive as the sea, as I toss and turn with swells slowly, but surely sweeping me further and further from shore. I once said that a ship with holes can’t save another ship – I must have failed miserably to realize, or to have any cognizance of the current situation, the gravity of despondency and hopelessness I possess. Alas, I am sinking all alone in a world full of life. I have nothing to give the world – there are no trophies on my wall…there are no loved ones in quaint picture frames peeking at me screaming quietly “You are so loved!” It must be some spell I was put under – for this seems to be a blanket which strangles me half to death. I cannot for the life of me, for the sake of life itself, seem to be able to get a path of my own which leads somewhere of worth. I often wonder if I am even worthy of making it Somewhere; meanwhile; USS Nowhere is sinking at an uncanny pace as all the lovers and poets speak but don’t hear; as they see me, but don’t feel what I feel; as they live while I silently wither away into a thread – into a finely wrapped rope of insecurities, distrust, and resentments. I created the end; however, I was not the catalyst to my creation. When people say a “past life” the simply refer to old you when you were a child. These memories are tucked away. We are entirely different by our demise. We are nothing more, than something morphed, transformed, just as the volcanoes create basalt and forget the youthful lava they once were. I have changed more than the erosion bites at the beach over a century’s worth of weather – in short, it is not who I once was, but who am I today. That’s what really matters in the end. It is easy to forget ourselves in the process of subconscious change. This may seem irrelevant, but in truth, I only bring this up to explain how I scoured books to jog my memory of what I was once like. What was I? What am I becoming in the flash of an eye, in the strike of light, in half a blink?! I have for four years written every day to figure out who I am. I am even started a book called “The Progress Report: Before and After the Manic Days” just to follow my progress and regression. The depression in the social recessions, the honest confessions, the unlearned life lessons taught by the unteachable. All the ironies and obscurities that go along with living . . . I tracked it all – and I will be the first to tell you, I have not learned anything about myself through this painstaking introspection; except, that I am just a lost soul still wandering empty roads. I seem to be fated to this. It is my destiny; I see it written in the stars. I see this sad, solemn story like a like a silky projector screen on the back of my eyelids when I finally decide to go to bed … when I say for the umpteenth amount of times “I’ll feel better tomorrow.” In which it is partly my fault, I get a paycheck from living, and I spend it killing myself in the most disgraceful way, so I live this unlikely paradox day in and day out. Amongst the lovers and poets again, I am congenial, but I think they all hear and see the pain behind hollow laughs and half-smiles. They all know. They all know. They all know I’ll be dead before the year is up, and, that is just wishful thinking. I am not suicidal, boy oh boy, I’ve seen the microscopic cleanliness of a safe environment; the bleached floors, the screwed down tv’s, chairs, tables, as if I would even have the audacity to hurt someone besides myself; for what purpose would that serve. The roots of my heart go too far into the earth to leave peacefully, it must be a fight to end the battle of life. Inflicting pain on someone else is like putting a temporary Band-Aid on my wounds; a decoy; a cover; a false veil. As the corrupted, vile, useless, meaningless, damned soul as I am, I love the world, and the people in it . . . nearly everyone included, except myself – that is the problem standing in the path which leads to my success and bliss. Guarding the trail like a dog watching its meal, always waiting and ready to ensnare me – to bind me in cloth after I have been embittered by harsh reality. I’ll think I shall bury myself…in books tonight. They speak to me when no one else will, and for that, I am eternally thankful.

10 Replies to “February 24th, Two A.M. in Death Valley . . . Again”

  1. You stagger me. You humble me. The level of truth/thought that I read here allows me to let go of any petty worries that may flit around in the sometimes chaotic space that can be my mind.

    Like

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