10/29/17

Restlessly monitoring my self-indulgent terror.

Sitting and thinking, tired of the idea of “thinking too much”.

What is that instinct that tells me that some kind or form of

destiny is pulling me somewhere?

Why do I feel it so strongly

and then to find that nothing happened.

I’m tired of myself.

Tired of the confusing contradictions.

Tired of the same patterns.

Tired of my language and talking and writing and even all of this falls into a loop.

So fucking tired of sounding like this.

So fucking tired of feeling like I can’t describe how I feel.

I don’t have the words.

I don’t know how to say how crazy I am.

I don’t know how to tell everyone

that I really believe that everything we do, all of society,

is made up and terrifying.

There does not seem to be a real way out.

There does not seem to be a way for me to allow myself

to be vulnerable because no one wants this.

Nobody wants a man that can’t hold onto what most people deem to be real.

I’m stuck in a limbo between wanting to be a part of society

and wanting to be a part of something else.

Sometimes my dreams are more real than reality.

Sometimes my irrational thoughts seem more logical than logic.

And whenever I get closer to that

I get further away from being able to do my job,

further away from being able to articulate myself,

further away from memories and tangibility,

and further away from people I love.

 

I know that I’ll never make enough money to save for a future.

I know that I’ll never fully get over my fear of romantic intimacy and vulnerability…

I’ll always fear those I love abandoning me.

I don’t think I’ll have children,

because I don’t think I’m adjusted enough to take care of anyone.

I don’t think I’ll live past 40

because I have all of the indicators of someone who will die from stress-related illnesses.

So does it matter?

I worry that if I live to be old, then I’ll live on the streets.

But at the same time, I do not believe that I’ll live to be old.

I’m afraid to be turned off, shut down, gone.

But that is inevitable.

I will end.

And I will not accomplish what I so desperately want to.

I think what that is, that I want to accomplish, has a lot to do with personal freedom.

I want to live a life where I can dedicate myself to creation,

to art, to thought, to passion.

But that only happens to those born rich,

born lucky, or those born to struggle.

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