Here I sit, so cliche, wonderin’ what the hell to do. Maybe I should go into a bathroom stall and write in loose-leaf notebooks. I feel like I want to cry, that it would feel so good to cry, so fucking good, and I can’t. I can’t cry anymore. Do I love people, or are they just convenient and comfortable? If I loved him enough, I’d say something, I’d do something… and I can’t. No one can do anything, not even her. I’ve always wished I could find someone who understands. For a long time, I’ve believed I’m understood, but it’s changed. I’m not the same person I used to be when I was twenty-three. I’m not the same person I was when I was twenty-seven, or twenty-nine, or eight, or sixteen, or eighteen, or thirty-one.
I remember what I used to cry about a long time ago. I remember her on the sidewalk, crying on her birthday and the yell that could be heard through the entire trailer court. I used to cry about that. I used to be so connected to people I’d feel their emotions, but now, I’m so far apart. I told Dr. Yock that I had some kind of tainted existence. He was intrigued, but I never got a chance to tell him what that was. I never got a chance. Never got a chance to be what I could’ve been, and it’s been that way ever since. It’s all that could’ve been.
Age, medication, and broken relationships have made me forget who I am. When I was in elementary school I still remember how I’d imagine myself all grown up. I could do anything, and my future was so amazing. I could do all the things I could only dream, but… life’s not exactly like that is it?
I’m slowly turning into him, and I understand. I don’t have to be him, I don’t have to transform into something I’m not, no matter how much I want to transform now. I want to transform, but this time around I can’t. I was the stupidest person in front of the room, I was the dumbest, and I couldn’t help it. Nothing had prepared me. I hadn’t prepared myself because I was too busy. Too busy being me.
Where did the games go? Where did the perfect machines go, the torture devices that were going to spread the disease and freeze myself into blocks of ice? I got better. I improved. I stabilized. But I thought he’d always be looking at me, understanding, but I now I realize I’ve never actually known who that would be.
I don’t understand why everyone betrays me in the end. Even betrayal of stopping being a whole person. Betrayal of what used to be, a ghost, a mirage of understanding that’s just, questions now. I used to be an onion, but now I’m just a pumpkin, a jack-o-lantern with a pouty face. My frown now frozen into this happy child visage. Who am I?
I was going to colonize the moon and rule the world with my mega-billions. I was going to conquer with my Nomocratic army against the tides of societal illusions. But it was all just a fantasy, so close to me and yet never really there. How can someone pretend to be your best friend? Make you believe that you have someone else, that you’re together against the world, that you’re wearing the emperor’s new clothes with holes in your shoes… and never mean a damn word of it. Never meant a single gesture, a single Bellamy salute, a single cup of morning coffee, a single Louis Vuitton or Versacci, a single glance in the car. Maybe I could’ve seen it through a dash cam.
The medication will want to change, but dammit I don’t want it to change. In fact, I don’t want to take it at all. Maybe then I’d cry. This is the force of who I am, the swinging hammer, Foucaults pendulum, the sword of Damocles. This is the thrust of my identity, but will someone feel it? No fear.
Perhaps one day I’ll be a wolf, but not a wolf now, a wunk. A half-wolf half-skunk. Tiny, like a pocket gay, with a quick whip and a teasing smile… or as one put it once, a shit-eating grin. Then I’d live all among my kind. It’s all in the DNA, I understand that now. This isn’t psychotic, just a product of my mega-billions.
But I digress. Where did I go? No one looks on me, quiet while the others are loud, and is proud. What makes me? Where did my love go? Where did anything go? Why can’t I remember it anymore, feel it in my heart, the quickening ache gone, now dull, flat, and without luster.
I’m sorry, this is my crazy period. Back when I was a lunatic. And there’s no funnel, no beer pipe to chug, chug, chug, no cafeteria soft-serve in the morning, and no one to avoid. No pay phone calls with golden dollars long distance. I am the long distance now, I am my own disconnect, I am the lonely but all pervasive dial tone. There is no dial tone anymore…
The anti-psychotic makes me stuck, and makes me forget how to be. I want to not take anything at all, but there’s no one I can tell… might as well just blurt it out here, where everyone can see. I’m stuck in a vice grip of banality and empty stabilization. I’m so frustrated.
There’s all this energy, all bottled up. It looks out to see where it can go, but it’s application misses the target. Ambivalence sets in, then apathy, then forgetfulness, then nobody. I’ve been living superfluous, and I see that now. 8-bit characters walking across the screen, walkin’ on DOWN the hall, walk on down the hall. I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore, I used to, I wanted to hurt others as much as I hurt sometimes, and in this fragile monstrosity maybe find some kind of redemption. But what’s the point?
It seems that I’m not myself when you’re around. I’m not myself right now, but I’ve never been more myself than right now. This is who I am, this is who I used to be, and this is who I have to be but forget. I forget to eat, a symptom of forgetting to be. I’ve never stopped struggling to become a person.
But nobody’s going to understand. Am I a product of my influences, of my brain chemistry, of an awful awful book, of silence? That is what I am, just a product. I am just a computer and if we change the configuration file, everything would work fine. But what about the thought inside of me, the force inside of me, my choices and my illogical desires, my consciousness, my depression, the ownership of my psychosis. Unrecognizable.
All my friends move away. There’s at least six people that I have no idea how to contact, but, existed in my life. My high school sweetheart came too late, and now is gone. I became nothing. I became a pile of hate and loathing, a casket of void, a statue without form, stuck against the ever blowing tide. And now I’m a figment, until now.
But I won’t do anything. I’ll just think. I’ll just write to the world, with no apparent motivation. It just seems the trendy thing to do these days. I’ll just ruminate, I’ll just exist, but I won’t be. No one can help me until I can help myself.