my friend in chicago, who i mentioned just now, and who, along with tracey and laura in oakland is one of the most beautiful and interesting and wonderful people i have ever met, said something to me yesterday that sounds like the first page of a book i want to read:

“I woke up and it was snowing. The city looked so beautiful. Then I remembered everything else.”

i was talking to my friend in chicago, who is one of two people i know who suffers from the same godawful it’s-never-going-to-get-better 50%-suicide-rate malady as me . . . we were talking about how we feel as though we occupy a pocket in reality which exists outside of the one we are always looking at or trying to interact with, one foot in each dimension, our minds split between two worlds, both bad. we decided it’s like being that kid from the sixth sense. we can’t make anyone see what we see.

and please know that i do not think my perception is superior, or that i think i am better than anyone else. are you kidding me? next to schizophrenia this is the absolute worst sort of mind window to see through, mostly because you are not seeing things that aren’t there, and are not hearing voices, and so on, but are trapped in the same world as everyone else except you SEE and FEEL everything and the things you see and feel are so bad you feel like there’s no way you can go on living like that forever. i know why my brothers and sisters drink themselves to death, or take a shortcut to get there quicker. your body is a haunted house. your eyes see a world full of malicious spirits! and your brain traps them inside.

and no one can join you there, and no one can really understand. and even when my friend and i talk, and we understand each other completely, we see the same ghosts—it’s not like that makes life any more bearable. all you know is that you’re both in total agony every waking moment of every single day we are still here.

people try to reconcile the person with the sickness. without the person there is no sickness. without the sickness there is no person.

please don’t tell anyone but i’m about to quote kierkegaard only because it is the quickest and cleanest way to wrap all this up:

“since my earliest childhood a barb of sorrow has lodged in my heart. as long as it stays i am ironic—if it is pulled out i shall die.”

i find that, when i am reading a book or watching a movie, i naturally sympathize or relate to the “crazy” or unhinged loner, who only thinks or behaves this way because everyone around him or her is an ignorant marshmallowy idiot who has never experienced a single genuine emotion in their whole marshmallowy life

ignatius, ahab, col. kurtz, rust cohle, bob arctor, freddie quell, charles foster kane (lol). . . .

and usually if the villain has any sort of realistic or interesting motive i don’t necessarily disagree with them either.

there are pictures of me as a little boy hung up in my grandmother’s house, which is my tomb, and you know i don’t have anyone to talk to so i walk around muttering to myself

there are black clothes all over the floor

anyway so i walk by these pictures of the quiet little boy from long ago, and i address him, saying, “you never had a chance, pal”

FOR THOSE WHO CAME IN LATE:

My entire life has been a cheap lie, and I have not had any real meaningful interaction with any human beings outside of the ones who swipe my credit card or put a toothbrush in a plastic bag for me in four miserable, soul-sucking heart-in-a-vice-grip weeks.

Also: My lips have been chapped for literally two weeks.

Also: There is too much snow on the ground for me to drive through the backroads and Heal Myself With Speed And Music.

Also: I gave myself a really bad haircut and I love it.

Also: The last person who slept with me, who was otherwise a very nice lady but who was nonetheless not well known to me, tossed me in the great big trashcan called SEEYA LATER IDIOT and the joke’s on her because I have been living in that trashcan for three years.

. . . and now I am spiraling into a lovelorn vortex where I can hear The Hyena weeping in the deep—and I, flailing in the great darkness, weep along with Him.

I should have my own Saturday morning cartoon! Or be hung in a city square. I don’t give a damn anymore to be honest. In five days I will have been here for twenty-eight capital-“D” Disappointing years and the Lego brick structure of my life is made of regret for knowing people, regret for letting anyone in, regret for ever thinking any of this crude matter was worth feeling anything about. The world breaks everyone, doesn’t it? It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. Where lies the final harbor? Don’t ask me, brother. I’m ready to unmoor one last time, I’ll tell you that much. It doesn’t matter what I write or what I say to people. They’re always going to think I’m crazy or unknowable. They’re always going to offer me cheap bloodless sentiments that could be got off a Hallmark card— no action, no love, just words made of milimeter-thick cardboard and an endless screaming eternity of nothing on the other side. This fiberglass Disney castle of a world and all the selfish pricks pretending to feel anything at all. You people, I swear. That I tinker with this screed dozens of times every day of my life, that I lay myself out on a slab ripe for ridicule and inherited shame—that the eyes and secret thoughts of others do not hinder my miserable whining work in the slightest—well, there’s your proof that I have lost my fear of harm from above, and await the gallows or the ghostly harbor! I tried to play the game fair and square but the game is rigged and I lost it all over and over again and now I am trapped in the suffocating darkness of this thing and there’s no getting out and I am alone while love blooms on the other side of me and I have not got one single god damn worthwhile venture to show for any of the many thousands of days I have blinked and breathed and tried to befriend the world. Death by misadventure! A tired old body and a rotten old mind that nobody wants anything to do with anymore. A little skeleton who called the thing what it was and was crushed into bonemeal just the same.

whoops i just finished watching ‘true detective’ for the fifth time and there are certain scenes where i’m just like vigorously nodding along whether i mean to or not

and anyway sometimes someone just sums up a thing pretty nicely, and i happen to think this is one of those scenes (putting it in a block quote so it looks nicer):

See we all got what I call a life trap. There’s gene deep certainty that things will be different. That you’ll move to another city and meet the people that will be the friends for the rest of your life. That you’ll fall in love and be fulfilled. Fucking fulfillment. And closure. Whatever the fuck those two fucking empty jars to hold this shit storm . . . Nothing’s ever fulfilled. Not until the very end. And closure. No. No—no. Nothing is ever over.

yeEEEAaaaAHHHHH sorry but gonna have to vote ‘yes’ on that’n right there

and later marty hart’s wife says that rust believes nobody actually ever forgives anyone??? that people just have short memories??????

mmmmmHHHMMMMMMM

no more games

no more bombs

no more walking

no more fun

no more swimming

my homepage used to be the wikipedia page for “wizards”

now it is the wikipedia page for “ghosts”

i haven’t had a “romantic relationship” that lasted more than five days in almost three years guys

my buddy

my brother

have i embarrassed myself enough for today?

quite, i have written 24 posts since midnight

time to turn off the light and pray to the angels who keep me safe

but i won’t sleep

oh lord no are you kidding me

my body is so beaten down and warped and sapped from sadness that i am more or less a skeleton wearing a cheap human halloween costume

. . . but then maybe that’s all any of us are (lol)

((whoa))