As the year comes to a close so one makes a modest assessment of the general operations and future hastings. Here is an honest conclusion, a clear conscious report.
To proceed, one must acknowledge that anyone under the age of 45 is terminally online. If you were fortunate enough you got duped in the idea you could have some sort of home in sandy dunes: the same as a website or an empty Discord server. But when you understand that nothing lasts forever, doubly so with anything here, you ought to count your spare minutes a little more closely, and maybe wonder what returns you’d ever get. For reference, the returns here are staring in the mirror long enough until one is stirred to move to Vietnam.
With cracked lips so one walks past the asphalt and over the hill to view the six lane highway. And with enough toads smeared into the pavement you may wonder when is your turn.
Walking around Walmart and competitors so the fact remains that one continues to age and get flubby and jaundiced. It wouldn’t surprise me to see ambulances in a higher occurrence with how diseased everyone looks. One can only hope that, maybe, one isn’t buried into insignificance.
As the family whittles down and the economic and social reality surface there is no comfort left to be found. There is no acceptance on this platform, or another platform, or another string of emails that could deter the hundred mile-per-hour descent into the nuclear facility. Out of a desperate attempt I finally replied to a good portion of text messages sent to me over the course of the year that I was too despondent to reply too. After hitting send on the last one, the despair only set in more strictly – realizing that, however they reply, however the conversation next goes, so more visceral the position and emptiness. Recently I had the misfortune to visit a mostly abandoned frat house – once lively and now haunted and you could still feel the celebration between the broken flooring and cold halls, displaced and dusted furniture. Nothing is forever, and there is no room for me anymore in any of these peoples lives.
It is said that frostbite can cause a sensation of burning if one were to thaw it. In the same vein, after living so long without comfort, any semblance of it causes deep pain and a feeling of drowning. Where even a blanket feels like a burial site, or a fish tank, and they’re closing the lid.
I will be the cockroach and make this report because maybe by making you uncomfortable – or, if not that, at least disgusted – so it renders as a crude attempt to reach mutual understanding by dragging you down with me. Or at least a warning: such sickness should make you close the page.
When I was younger I used to feel so smug about not ever being swayed to die in a war I wouldn’t care about. But now, so I wonder if at least a war would shake one around and alive. If you keep looking away you’ll feel the fallen soldiers’ hands grab your ankles.
I clicked through some old anime songs so full of promise; when I contrast it with the concrete metropolis so I can’t help but wonder if this was all a deception. I want to smash all the buildings, if anything.
Walking in any district so one waits for incarceration; society is a book of women after all, and for the abandoned bachelor, you become the enemy.
I am waiting for my trident then. How long can I fend before I’m slaughtered?
When will I ever feel not awkward in a conversation – when will I finally accept that I will – I want to – die alone?
I don’t know where the time went. All I know is that grief eats you and when you finally can sew up your stomach you realize you’re two thousand miles behind the next settlement. The tabernacle is in tatters.
After this bout of despondency I will probably swallow this bile as per usual, collect some cockroach belongings, and finally embrace that there’s nothing left in the world other than to go read some books, loaf around, and accept the position as the futile fragile thing against whoever watches this ant farm from above.