missing you

Perhaps, so long as I’m breathing, I’m merely a feeble victim of the same naïvety and unjustified optimism that I oppose. A wandering ghost forever bound to the narrow, suffocating space between my cynisism and the cognitive biases that have prolonged the life imposed on me. Bound to ambivalence and to be a walking contradiction. Bound to face the ultimate dilemma that every human organism, who has fallen into the howling abyss of despair and been torn to shreds by the savage beast that inhabits it, is faced with. Bound to be a puppet of flesh and blood in mother nature’s sick play, a war where the enemy is what causes every helpless creature on earth to fight until their dying breath: the survival instinct. Bound, fundamentally, to be a slave of the antagonism between the mind and the body.
Going through a list of 166 ways the brain tricks itself in favor of self-perseverance, I can’t help but wonder what the point of philosophy or the process of coming to a conclusion is. But what better way is there to tie your confusing, terrifyingly absurd existence to an identity based on indoctrinated pseudo-ethics, socialized opinions and choices? To provide yourself with a false sense of self that is capable of decision-making and discernment? To consider your altruism a virtue of character as a way of inflating your own ego? Without this conviction the illusion of your own security crumbles. The reality of your own helplessness rears its ugly head. This is the jarring paradox, the fact that any and all truth is beyond your capacity to discern, because now no intention is pure, all certainty illusory.

I used to think that if I could just determine what was the rational thing to do, to commit to life or to commit to death, I could move on with my life — or move on with not moving on. Now I’m in limbo, out of mind, self-bound, banished but incapacitated. My legs are fractured and I am one thousand years down the wearing road to nowhere. The road to somewhere would appear to be an option, but it is in fact located on the opposite side of the Milky Way and the space shuttle I stole in my desperation has been reclaimed by NASA. And so I keep walking though every step pains me, because it’s too late to go back and because there is something oddly satisfying in going the wrong way. Because I am tired and this road is the shortest.
The idea of determinism enables me to live with myself and the disastrous consequences of my actions. I am a responsibility-phobe. I am a commitment-phobe. I am a contentment-phobe. I am a life-phobe of unprecedented proportions. I am the dead rat, brown wet fur, blood swirling with the dirt and tiny teeth on the asphalt when it’s raining. I am an image that can only be etched into the mind of a child. I am not morbid. I am roadkill, soft body and bone dragged to the highway ditch by man’s aversion to leave exposed the grisly side of his own convenience. Now my one vain hope is to be found by a roadkill connoisseur so that my broken body can be touched once more. The very same water that once sustained me, as if by love or design, will pour down from an indifferent sky and rid the earth of the tire-marked blood smears I left behind me like an autobiography. It will wash away the proof, that though my life always seemed to me like a dream, I was really here. I was real. 
Now I can’t get over the fact that my shiny, pink brain could have been a nice touch of color to the white tile bathroom instead of sending these pointless signals to my limbs: “write this, write that, sedate me you ugly bitch”. It goes on forever. It’s talking to me, but there is no “me” here, I’m it. I could have sworn I was a phantasm caught in a bad world. Much to my dismay, my brain remains intact on the wrong side of my skull and continues to inflict on me the crushing burden of my own existence. I am honest.

Just scrolled through my blog. “Write drunk, edit sober” is good advice, I guess.

death-suit:

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.

Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.

But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.

Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.

In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.

I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.

Still-born, they don’t always die,
but dazzled, they can’t forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.

To thrust all that life under your tongue!—
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death’s a sad Bone; bruised, you’d say,

and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.

—Anne Sexton, Wanting to Die

(Source: bellsinwinter, via anhedonys-blog)