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I must be vigilant. Always mindful. Because it is addictive. Addictive and sly. It creeps up on me, all familiar melancholy. Friendly. Like an old friend softly whispering “remember me?” and the draft warm on my skin. A caress. But it is dangerous. It’s soporific and narcotic, nearly sexy. An injection of sorrow strait to the blood steam, which doesn’t take long to seep into the brain. From there it trickles down to the chest, lodging there heavy and immutable. But this takes  time. To begin, it innocently masquerades as the blues. As nothing serious- just a fault of the light. It is sneaky that way. Drip-dripping little drops of gloom into my bright world. Like little hits of acid, bringing out the poignancy of the mundane. Ironically, making pretty things shine. For a time. Soon enough, though, it is no longer gentle. The sweet sadness turns sour, bitter, bleak. The draft becomes still. The air grows stale. My soft flesh becomes so much meat, my body incapable of holding any heat. It becomes insufferable, but impossible to ignore. I shiver, my heart heavy. I stare at my feet, my brain become so much dead weight. And for this, no reason. No decent reason at all. Just the result of a somber seduction, a lugubrious affair. A temptation by the darkness, and the inevitable surrender, by and by. So this is why I must be wary. Always mindful and ever alert. Because it is always only a matter of time.


Per se

There is a depth in my chest, an ache from the absence of something I know no name for. It is heavy with longing, a desire to consume, a need to experience. No amount of coffee, nicotine, conversation, or comfort allays this feeling of necessity. It is sadness that imparts a wry concern, or rather wryness over the lack thereof. It is partly an acceptance of the foils of life, an acquiescence to fate, an acknowledgment of entropy. There is that, yes, an understanding of the saddest parts of life, but coupled not with apathy, per se, but something damn close. It reeks of complacency and disappointment, a mixture both bland and nauseating. It makes me feel so dense, nearly made of stone, but so far removed from reality I might as well be on the moon. Under this malaise, I can only write in circumlocutions and speak in halfhearted murmurs. I know not what I say. I care not what I do. I am so tired, but cannot find rest.

I desperately require. . .


Maybe I’ll finally be that damn rock on the beach.

As cliche as it is, I walk through life with death at my side. Never am I unaware of its presence, its possibility. I know how fragile we are. We are machines made for obsolescence. This world is dangerous. We are dangerous. Life is always fatal. Yet I do not fear my constant companion. It is a truth of physics that gives me solace. This vessel with fail and rot before it burns yes, but it was only ever on loan. My atoms wove this story of molecules, a fluke of chemistry made it aware. I am a walking cosmic miracle. I was not built for forever; I was built from forever. I am also a walking cosmic joke. A conscious sack of meat hanging on sticks of minerals, powered by the energy of the dead, filled with the stuff that makes suns explode? It is already absurd.

What we have done here is even more so. We were not meant to maneuver in a society billions strong. No, we were built to be a part of simple systems- to live quiet lives then die. This whole experiment in world-wide human civilization is one glorious fiasco. How can we be anything be our own doom? And yet there are those who wish for this absurdity to continue. They keep creating laws, ideas of propriety, meaning, new methods of distraction and destruction. Every breath I take I feel the artificial nature of what we have created, and wonder why no one else seems to notice. We are all insane, even those of us who understand the pointlessness of the whole exercise. Humans are how the universe experiences irrationality.

So, in all of my irrational humanity- since I’ve never found this existence comfortable and only rarely found it pleasurable, knowing that I will one day inevitably die allows me to live. It allows me to attempt to ignore the worst bits of being alive, while giving me permission to enjoy the best. (It will all be over soon I tell myself.) I’d never willingly give up the knowledge of my life being finite or try to pretend otherwise.

When my system fails I will not fear. No, I will relish the relief of knowing I can now go do something else.