No matter what I write, it’s garbage. I read it, and it hurts. I have so much to say, but the words won’t come. All I can spit out is this meaningless drivel. My mind feels rotted by shallow conversation and brain dead functioning alone in a dingy house far removed from the ones I love. Art has never come from a place of happiness for me. But right now, I tired that I can’t open my mouth and so alone that anything I say feels like it’s too an empty room. I don’t know what’s happening, but I don’t like. All I can write anymore is things that terrify me, horrible people doing horrible things in a world that makes no sense. And I think it’s because that’s all I see anymore. I’m scared. Life scares me.
I used to have some faith that things would be alright, but I can’t say that anymore. As a child, I saw the world as a child does: a machine that always functions, a dependability that will always be there, a consistency on which to rely. But now I see it as it is: the greatest lie of all, a symphony of sheetless players trying their best to make a song out of chaos, an absurd race to an imaginary finish line where we will finally have “enough” and be happy. And now flashes another revelation before my eyes, that we are all merely children who have grown up, still just as foolish as we ever were but now with power.
Life used to make sense. I am convinced of that. I doubt it did when I was alive, though. But a few thousand years ago, I am certain that life made sense. You were born. You grew. You hunted. You killed. You ate. You fucked. You died. There was no illusion that life was worth saving. You lived and died because that’s what people do. But now, we’ve convinced ourselves that life is worth extending, that twenty years is too little time, that death is our enemy. So we drudge along for another six decades, but now it’s worse. Now we have time to think. We have time to wonder what it all means. And when we see there is nothing more than what little meaning we can give our own lives, we finally see that we are not the center of the universe. Well, if you ask me, that’s a delusion every living thing deserves. We are here for a sliver of a fraction of infinity to struggle and die only ever truly knowing our own minds. How much is it truly to ask that we not have to concern ourselves with that outside ourselves? But we can’t maintain that charade anymore. The cat is out of the bag. We are not the center of it all. So here we are, slaves to knowing just as we were slaves to ignorance, just as much as we are ignorant still in the face of a universe we barely understand.
I’m not really sure I have any point, and I don’t think there’s much of a point to be made. Sometimes, at the end of the day, shit’s fucked up and there’s nothing you can really do about it.