The voyeur I’ve come to be found itself reading a journal that’s scattered with pictures and unusual-usual ventures into worlds known yet not often experienced. Unusual in how infrequent, but usual by its design.
As I scrolled through I started to feel a mixture of nausea and accumulated essence of being which lashed out at me.
And we’re marching so slowly to death we forget that.
And I’ve been acting mature for so long that I forgot what it means to be alive.
And I’ve had those realizations before which spurred me into turning into this shut-in that I am, and I felt sick. I’ve lost the courage to seize the day and that’s because the day felt so monotone for at least the last four years.
And so the me’s in me started battling, who’s really right? Is this day not enough to be content with? Monotone but the monks know colors we’ve never seen!
But all of the desires welled up in me so intensely — probably by proxy, as so many are desperate for something more these days — and deep down I know traveling is running away as is anything else, but a profound sickness hit me hard thinking about the store clerk near a beach just chatting up people. Listening to tunes. Never did bother to travel, never had the courage to say, “I love you” to those I could say it to, knowing they’re going to rest in their grave. How painful regret will be then…
I am alive, you are alive, but do we act alive, and my parents will die soon, and so will your siblings, and so will my extended family and your friends if they are still out there. You’re going to die too. Did you want to spend time reading this?
Every second you’re inching toward death, and maybe we’ll be buried together. Will you smile when you meld with soil?
Death! The great equalizer! How absurd all of the worries when we forget our impermanence. In fact I’m not fond of any thoughts of impermanence because I love deluding myself that this will stay the same and we’ll just continue to write here with you here and that’s our forever embedded. God, is this a real-time obituary? Am I writing myself into my grave? Perpetually avoiding the larger questions and I couldn’t ever get a tattoo because I don’t want to be reminded of my arc of life and that I’m dying. That’s a checkpoint. When you walk through it you’re reminded you’re halfway through the level, map in your hands. What’s the finale?
Don’t want to appear human, because if I do I think whatever human I’ve turned into is a rehash of a rehash and that’s no good at all, is it? I could have a trailing journal of my idle thoughts but I am just thinking about the tornado couple that finally settles into some suburb and breaks down in the kitchen finally acknowledging everything is behind them. They smiled all of that time and now the wine broken up the fact that it’s been over or never did begin for them; they’re running and running and it finally just slams; the way you fell in love wasn’t actually anything more, and the thoughts rip into you how it wasn’t anything at all, anything at all! SICKENING!
As I get older I’m joining the ranks of those I once read for pleasure, and as I read my prose I wonder if it’s forever dilettante or why does it even matter if it’s something more? Why is the distance so large between us? But in either case I am now among the ranks of those who moved with fierce tension across their living, and prodded about in public affairs or championed the new way of living. Am I wasting or indulging in this insignificance?
Reading that journal I couldn’t help but feel so ashamed at my lacking, none of boldness found, and I felt nauseous thinking to ever talk to people who had more and filled more; to be the filler between their large arcs. I am already limp and you’ve satiated everything, what else are we even to do here? Well I suppose you can rank me 145th in a conversational meal. An accompanying cockroach meandering between cities and only with an exoskeleton pressed unto me due to no swaying need to make more of it, make conversations last, know the birds in the vicinity — I can’t be bothered to feel such emotions because the torrential pain will rip me apart after. Who can stand the thought of visiting Vienna only to be sitting squared-legged upon a bunk sometime at 11pm and feeling the exoskeleton suffocating, insignificance devouring — let me be insignificant then!
Here I am and although I never asked for a plushie to hold I feel pathetically warped into a state of amnesia, a forever-lasting adolescence that has lost its endearment four acts back.
Nor well read nor well ambitious and yet here I lay dying with you. There’s at least a checkmark next to Melodramatic in this report. (or is it?)
The choice of life — it has pitifully left out the part where you die, and you will be dead, and that’s that.
Worked on this neocities site for four months now and it isn’t even real. It doesn’t exist, it did or didn’t or it doesn’t know it does but it just don’t seem real. Are any of the actions I do, do any of them have repercussions? Do you even want that? I don’t know. Where is the karma? Well I guess it forms in a bundle of neurosis which you can only depart from. Life is too short for neurosis.
Is this the part where I command us in unison to live with a bit more vigor, some more tongue-in-cheek comments? It may as well be.
Did it hit you? — will you live?