Why the **** would I post here if I wanted attention. I come here precisely because I don't want attention. I could go post on Facebook or Twitter if I wanted attention. I come here to air thoughts I could never share publicly and that are too heavy to keep just inside my own stupid defective brain.
Sigh... I've missed Eon, too. More than they'll ever know. I don't think they'll ever know or care how much they meant to me. The few months we spent as friends were some of the best I've had in recent years. I really thought I'd found a friend, someone who understood me and was interested in me, who wanted to know me and someone I wanted to know.
And now they're back. And look at me... an unworthy mess, a stupid state of affairs, a pathetic piece of refuse.
God, I ****ing hate this life.
Shivers and ****ing shakes. Dead veins. Blood is better on the outside: then it means something, no mere perfunctory and mildly functional gesture. If God will kill me then I'll do it first myself. Give me the hope. Just a shot of light to carry me through, dear hope. Give me light. A hit of second sight to see the coldest, purest end of time. Eschaton: I carried you all along. Away: into the wild pale yonder. Entropy like a junkie's final cotton breath. Creaking fibres groaning under the weight. It can't take my shape: it's all too heavy. Bring on chaos and night and let me sleep. Perfunctory no more: the ecstatic endless, the end.
There's no medication to solve this false salve. A singeing tincture I imbibed like a dumb babe. What a ****ing moron I am. At the gates of self-despair like a crying thumb, bleeding salt. Wound me with your spear. Skewer my fetid soul. It's what I deserve. A complete and pretty gesture, ascetic aesthetic, even a sliver of vision would keep me stuck. Neither here nor there. Between shades. My shadow, crawling. Even the walls cower. They can't see it, but they can feel it.
Hook me up to your drip. Morphinate my petty wreck. I never held beauty, but now I'm all ****ed and broken. Why? There's no answer, forget it. I deserve this. I'd carry a mountain if I could, but I was a feeble child. No weight on my back. It'd break in an instant. I've shelled the feeling, found no pearls, no ash, no diamonds. Just a malformed abortion of emotion that I hold in my arms and smother. It would never have lived, not in this sub-temp. My hands shake as they kill.
I was never anything but an unheard echo. An unjustified miscarriage of sapience, ready for discard. It comes down to this: seven figures, one masked. They hold out their knives and ask a simple question, but I do not speak their tongue. No mercy here, comrade. Let the night envelope you. Let the blood become the final baptism. There's peace to be found, but not here. Not as long as you keep trying. It's time to give in. Just imagine what your parents would think of you, you silly thing.
Second person: a device used to distance your psyche and work through an apocalypse that you know yourself unworthy of. This is no gloaming of consciousness or conscience: this is just another night, alone, with less alcohol than you'd prefer. Just another night alone in front of the blue light. You'd like it to end here, but it won't. There are many nights left yet, you poor sucker. Drink it up.