THE WRITER MUST EAT -> patreon.com/trn1ty <-

| \    |   | blah!
|\ | `\|\  | the rantings and ravings
|/ |(_|| | * of a depraved lunatic

<^>

2023-12-12

Didn't have time to figure out how to set up TeX. Still don't. Don't have time
to explain. I'm so tired. I'm wearing raw. Like skin torn apart by a fall at
high speed onto a road. Flesh torn from bone, then bone itself ground against
sandpaper. My girlfriend stopped texting back two weeks ago. Marrow leakage.

I'm at the bus stop and freezing
Do you get what I mean?
It's been a week since you called me
Am I still in your screen?

I think of you daily
or the bottomless pit
I wanna throw myself into.
But that's just how I think.

You got tired of me, maybe,
as a loving girlfriend
perhaps the novelty faded
into repetition.

But I liked the routine
and I thought it was a happy ending.

After every chapter there's another
is a better life what I'll get?
Or an ache in my side and
my catacomb cage quiet.

I can't sleep anymore without watching people die on-line. I spend one or two
hours a night on watchpeopledie.tv and I've probably seen most of the videos on
the site, I made an account to track my viewing history so I don't watch the
same stuff over and over. I long to know what it feels like to drown, to burn
alive, to bleed out, to be crushed in the cogs of an industrial machine, to be
shredded, beheaded, to die alone in the cold or the heat or a swampy summer
day. I'm kept alive by decision paralysis and the bitter responsibility to make
the world a significantly better place than I found it. I'm so tired.

I imagine, engulfed in flames, or at the edge of consciousness under the sea,
or within the swiftly closing steel maws of an unknowing automaton, or just
after the machete starts sawing, or at the second gush from the vein, or
simply looking at a dirty brick wall as the last sight on this plane, there is
a moment, brief but potent, of realization and acceptance of what has happened,
and that that one moment is the sweetest bliss of certain finity that could be
given to a mortal. Just a tick, one sixty-fourth of a moment in a snap. I hope
decades from now I can experience it and that it's as serene as I hope.

I wonder if I'm just forgettable. Maybe that's all it is. I don't want to be
forgotten but I do. If my words fade into aether I want my kharma to persevere.

<^>

No rights reserved, all rights exercised, rights turned to lefts, left in this
corner of the web.