Four A.M. Dead on the Tracks (wishful thinking)

I have a great dissatisfaction in the self-realized regression I put myself through; it’s almost as if I never want to get better. I need sobriety if I ever want to be stable and independent – the lad who lives comfortably and pays his taxes on time. I may be able to have what it is I desire if only I work honestly with more than a dash of determination. This was once just another blank page, full of angst and pent up rage; why must I disintegrate so rapidly? – It all comes in unseen waves of relief followed by misery for the dreadful miles which lie ahead. I dare say I am a decent human being! What plagues my self-image, self-worth, self-esteem…? I have all these questions, but only less than a handful of answers. And, how that troubles and displeases me. Though, I will never be pleased with anything – anything at all. I digress. The thoughts have a mind of their own, and sometimes I think it not have come from my own consciousness but instead spoken from a foul mouth elsewhere in the corners of the dark universe. I find myself stumbling through, unable to be coherent, that is dismally apparent as I realize again the problems far outweigh the simpleton solutions I jerry-rig to fix the internal wounds. As I am trapped behind an insurmountable wall, I see I will never be able to get off the tracks before the train arrives at my departure from this earth. I ought to move, flee, escape…escape the situation, but I tangled to the rails, tied up in knots both physically and mentally, but in all ways stuck on the tracks. I continue to try much as a fool tries his life through to make something of himself. Much as the blind try and try to open their eyes to see the gift of life; alas, save them and me, for the image is hazy and unclear. As if looking through dense fog, I dance, pray, trying with all the strength in the deteriorated body, to see the good in things but they fail to appear. I am indifferently alone – stuck in a social nightmare where anxiety holds the reins and steers me to the rocky cliffs. I am not writing very well right now, and the only apology I can muster is “sorry…” as I look away with melancholy coating my eyes like the smoke of medicinal herbs, I know I cannot even accept an apology from some part of myself.  I am a bizarre creature, who see himself as meaningless. The last flickering flame of Hope shines brightly, but not with enough splendor. I just cannot let my life be a series of dead ends – as I’m stuck in the cul-de-sac of despair and pity until I am nothing more than an afterthought. I want Nothing more than to be Something more than a number, a mechanical wheel so easily replaced – the easily forgotten fact. I want to build bridges to connect the heart, mind, soul, body with the help of determined thought…with pure, piercing, and unwavering truth amongst all those spoon-fed lies. I know I can make Something of myself – just the old ways lead to the old life. I want adventure; I want the thrill of anticipated change. I must change or I will live an even more depressing, and endless rat-race life of dull bliss and rooms locked from the outside shutting in the self-hate and hellish introspection – can I bear it, I know I’ll go mad. Some piece of me, undoubtedly nameless as I am that unique in the grand scheme of space, time, and distance, believes I have made my coffin, I may as well sleep in it. I’ve written my epitaph, and nailed the casket shit with realistic, brutal skepticism and unwarranted negativity. Will I ever just buckle up and ride the relentless waves of Life? Or, shall I just lie on the beach and be battered and battered, and beaten into uniform submission – raise the white flag and be done with it all? Sometimes, I pray tragedies will befall me like fatal car accidents, lethal overdoses, and the like – but faith without works is surely dead just like my hopeless dreams! I am a leech that lives off the Others, and their vitality and thoughtfulness they sometimes display. What a poison I have become! I am lost in the simplicity of deep concepts I don’t yet understand. I’m nearly singing the hopelessness blues. Am I even entitles or eligible for the present, the present of living? I think – too much for anything to really make sense anymore — I’ve had my fun, now it is time to be laid to rest. To retreat from the battle I’ve faces for years and years. On the merry-go-round of bullshit for a lifetime, the afterlife will suit me well when I reach it, that is, if I ever get the fortune to see Her.

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