ideas with no tangibility;
ideas with irrelevant supports;
ideas without value;
ideas' witlessness;
ideas' witnesses;



: Ruminations

Published here under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-
NoDerivatives 4.0 International Public License.

Written over the last two weeks or so. Do not read this if you know me
personally and ideally do not read otherwise, either. Do not try to talk to me
about this. I'm not gonna kill myself. I just was ruminating about the idea.

I've been thinking
about killing myself;
the coward's way out,
sure, but a way out
nevertheless. I really
want to die. I want to
feel it. I'd like to
drown, to immolate,
to bleed out. I crave
the subtleties of the
experiences that I
cannot fathom. In
my dreams I do; I
am chopped with
slain with swords,
various means of blunt
force. I am both
executed and executioner,
I experience all
simultaneously as it
is my subconscious
that renders my
potential fates, and
in the moment I
am cruel, and in the
moment I am kind,
and as the one
to die I feel relieved
to go, to be able to
let go of my stresses
and fears for my
longed-for certainty.
I'm tired of the
lucky escapes, the
dei ex machinae. I
feel like a character
of fiction, the pulp
protagonist that
always improbably
makes it out of the
bind. Like my fate
is already written,
predestined; sometimes
I can even see the
lines ahead, Kami
knows sections by
heart. I just got
on the bus I wasn't
sure I could afford
and it was free.
Maybe I'm an angel,
selfless miracles.
If so, to be an
angel is to be in
Hell. Condemned to
goodness. I am so
fucking stressed
because it takes
more and more work
for everything to just
work out. This
morning I thought
I was gonna break
down, actually just
break down. But
that's not in the
I want to be
alive and without
anaesthetic for
my dissection. I
want to see the
scalpel approach
my flesh, feel it
carve me and see
my own pink-dyed
subcutaneous fat.
The crimson viscera.
I want to taste my
own blood as I
succumb to
mortality. Done by
[...] or [...] or both.
In my scripted
demise will I
know commfort, will
I have known
comfort? Or will I
faint into a trench
and have the cold
work its way in
from the extremeties.
This morning I cried,
now my sadness had
hardened to a rich,
bitterness, a numbness
too. I can't keep
friends because I
never interact first,
see myself a burden.
The fuel that weighs
down the ship. Spend
me until you have
nothing left, be free
of me among the
stars. I arrived at
work an hour and a
half early. It's
nothing, the time ticks
on regardless. I hate
Christmas music. I am
so alone. [mi] [olin] [ala] [e] [mi].
[mi] [ike] [tawa] [mi]. I wish to be
primitive, of the
forest, to be solitary.
I would be so lonely
without [...].
I don't talk to the
people close to me
and to others I say
less. I want to taste
my blood. I want to
burn myself. I want
to die. But I don't
want to do it. My
friends depend on
me. And I have things
to write. When I am
done I will take my
leave. I want the
suffering to be over. I
want Nirvana. Nirvana
isn't heaven, it's simply
the conclusion to a
finite cycle of rebirth.
The conclusion to one's

I'd like to see
Chicago, California,
the Bodhi tree, the
sunrise from atop a
mountain, a molten
wall, the inside of a
flame, mucky clotted
blood. A chunk of
clot in a pool of
It's not that I don't
know how to ask for
what I want but
that I know I only
get what is deserved,
not what is desired.
I am a parable;
beware of excess. It's
better that I don't
control my own fate
else I'd
meet it. I believe I
am have cancer because I
don't want to believe
I will live 60, 70
more years, because
the best of those I
knew did not. When
I hear the Underscores
song I think, know
it too; Everybody's
dead and it's all my
fault. I don't have
the means to be vegan
in a way that is
healthy but I can't
bring myself to eat
dead animal; I've
caused enough harm.
I feel too old and
too young. I don't
know how to afford
rent. Not here, not
anywhere. I'd like
to become a Buddhist
monk. Burger King
coffee is bad but not
terrible. [tomo] [pi] [soweli] [moli].
[mi] [olin] [e] [toki pona]. I am as much
an animal as a cow
and know beef as
fallen brethren.
I wish to harm and
not harm, to be
caged and free, to
be known and
Anonymous, to love
and to be forgotten.
Pass on my memories.

I am so tired all the
time. Fatigued, weary,
sleepy. I need to
figure out how to get
an apartment. I need
a new social security
card. I want to die
because this work is
so hard and will get
harder yet. I want
to have a small
apartment with one or
two close friends full
of pillows and blankets
with a warm picture
tube and modded
Gamecube. How do I
make friends? How do
I afford an apartment
I do everything
wrong. When I am
praised it is without
sincerity, when I am
held it is without
catharsis, when I am
loved it is without
reality. To fall asleep
I think about cuddling
my girlfriend. I miss
my stuffed shark but
a stuffed shark will
not fit in a backpack.
Nor will aspirations.
[mi] [tawa] [tenpo] [suno] [ante]. [tenpo] [suno] [ni] [li] [ike] [lili]. [ni]
[ante] [tawa] [tenpo] [suno] [pini]. [tenpo] [suno] [ni] [la] [mi] [wili] [e]
[mi] [jo] [e] [lape] [lili] [tan] [tenpo] [mun] [pini] [la] [mi] [lukin] [e]
[jan] [moli]. [mi] [moli] [ala] [taso] [mi] [wili] [lukin] [e] [jan]
[moli] [tan] [mi] [wile] [moli]. [mi] [wile] [ala] [moli]. [mi] [olin] [moli]
[mi] [pakala]. [mi] [kama] [sona] [e] [toki pona]. [mi] [toki ike] [e] [toki
	pona]. [o] [toki] [ala].
I got a new pen today. A
Uniball Signo 207 with
"archival quality ink", "used
by professionals". It - and
this is evident in the notebook
in which I write this but
probably won't be if I
ever type it up - writes
shittily. Perhaps this is
due to the paper or to the
thin air where I now find
myself. Now it's writing fine
so who knows. I took the
pen apart just now, idly,
didn't have a good grip on
the tip that holds the
spring in, and the tension
released and the tip flew
to the other seat in the
booth of this restaurant. I
hate working here.
Today I'm less stressed
because I don't have to
catch a bus to my second
shift. The thought of my
finances still gnaws at
me and the walls are closing
in. The way I'm going isn't
sustainable and one way
or another, by homelessness
or breakdown, I will crumble,
inevitably. I'm not sure what
to do. I'm thinking about
getting a fake identity
and moving to the Balkans
or perhaps Kazakhstan. My
current location and situation
is, however, the result of a
similarly spontaneous and
far move, and I'm still
not established here.
My skin is dry. I guess that
wouldn't matter if I
killed myself. Homeless people,
with or without their senses,
are treated like animals. If
you treat people like animals
they will become animals.
The shelter here looks like a cage.
Perhaps that's what housing is,
a kennel for a human. The
decorations and dressing make
us forget it. I'm scared of
the future because I don't
know if I will survive it and
I don't want to die. I have
always had a problem with
biting my nails. I have an
oral fixation. I chew half
a pack of gum a day when
I can afford it. Three packs
and two Uniball Signo 207
pens cost $10.46.
I worked an hour for them.
How many hours will I need
to work to afford rent? No
matter how many it never seems
to be enough. I'm scared all
the time since I started
feeling emotions again. I miss
being numb but I don't miss
being in the situations that
made me numb. Maybe I
just need to sleep. I can't
fall asleep without either weed
or watching people die on
my cell phone.
I saw someone decapitated
by the wheels of a train.
I wondered how bad it would
be to die that way. They looked
so happy on social media. I
try so hard to be kind to
everybody. It has been 2 days
since last I hugged anybody.
I feel so alone. I'm not,
but the being is different
from the feeling. I am sad.
My girlfriend won't text me
back. Its replies were sparse
when I was sleeping outside
because it was worried I
would die in the cold. The
people I love most in the
world don't believe I will
ever be successful. I think
I might. If I was
infinitely powerful I would
give the empty houses to those
that need them and an I.D.
to anyone that wanted one.
I would feed the hungry and
transport the travelers. I
would find somebody who
knows exactly how I now feel.
[tawa] [tenpo] [ante]
[ni] [li] [tenpo] [pimeja].
[ni] [li] [tenpo] [ike]. [mi] [pakala]. [mi] [ike] [mute]. [mi] [pali] [moki]
[soweli] [moli]. [mi] [wile] [e] [ni]: [soweli] [moli] [ala]
[taso] [jan ike] [moli] [e] [soweli] [suwi]. [mi] [pakala].
[tenpo] [suno] [ni] [la] [mi] [pali] [moku] [e] [soweli] [suwi] [moli]. [mi]
[mi] [ike] [seme] [jan ike]. [mi] [pilin ike] [mute]. [mi] [pilin pakala]. [mi]
	[ike] [tawa] [mi].
[mi] [ike] [tawa] [soweli]. [mi] [ike] [tawa] [ma] [ali]. [mi] [ike]. [mi]
[toki] [nimi Japanese] [la] [tu] [tu] [pi] [toki pona] [li] [moli]. [mi]
[mi] [toki] [e] [ni]. [ni] [li] [tenpo] [nanpa] [tu] [tu].
[ni] [li] [tenpo] [pimeja]. [ni] [li] [tenpo] [mun] [ike]. [mi] [pilin ike]
[mi] [toki]. [mi] [pakala].
I've done abhorrent, horrible
things, and I don't know how
to make up for them. Killing
myself would be a start.
I wonder what it's like to
be dead. I wish there
wasn't rebirth.
i took the bus to work
i'm sorry
car just didn't start
the park
the gas tank full
the lighter
took the bus to work
i'm sorry
fifty year old man
i'm sorry
bandanna in a bottle
bandanna in a bottle
i drink til my tongue slips
i'm sorry
whatcha sorry for
i'm sorry
took the bus to work
and i think tonight i'm gonna let it hit me
he didn't see it coming
and his pace remained the same
eveloped in fire
did you feel anything?
i'm sorry for the slaughter
but god does my job pay
i bought myself a new car
but can't bear to fill the tank
[moli] [li] [pimeja] [e] [mi]
[pimeja] [soweli] [la]
[mi] [len] [e] [mi] [e] [ni]

[mi] [wile] [e] [lape]
[mi] [wile] [mute] [e] [lape]
[mi] [wile] [mute] [e] [ni]: [mi] [lape]
[mi] [wile] [e] [lape]
[mi] [wile] [e] [pali] [lape]
[mi] [lape] [ala]
[mi] [wile] [e] [lape]
[mi] [pakala]
[mi] [pakala]
[mi] [pakala]
[mi] [pakala]
[tawa] [tenpo] [suno] [ante]
city square littered with corpses
vendors fallen at their stalls
bags spilled open, coins atwinkle
reflecting moonlight. earthly stars
if you cut one open the blood would be dark red
no oxygen in their system, hypoxia, death instant
civilians struck in a war of which they weren't aware
died for a growing number on a screen
children are among them, and in homes babies cribbed
a bus driver reading a dog eared copy of the tao te ching
four of a chosen family out of broken homes
taken from a cold street to new apartment, optimists
nobody mourns the losses. members of a town too small
in life they all were lovers. now inanimate
a flower sits in a cup, never to be watered again
in the face of inevitability, what has it all meant
city square declared a grave site
by nobody; nobody cares
a dog lays still on the cobblestone
its last experience fitful sleep, a nightmare
I'm tired.

i don't believe in a god
and haven't since i saw a dog
skinned alive
a mess of dripping, florid blood
and muscle and bone
and it let out what screams
can be screamed with what function
its analog to our vocal chords
had left
and kept screaming
shaking, it hanged suuspended by rope
from an oak tree, perhaps maple
the twine brown matching the sand
and dirt and green leaves
and not the unnatural red
of the shivering animal
unable to comprehend even its fate
let alone what brought its aggressors
to take a machete to the starving, matted
thing. how could a merciful, good creator
allow one of her children to experience
such a thing, and not die upon removal
of the face? who would want to survive such
a thing? and especially,
if not only a god is our creator but
the arbiter of our fates,
why did she let someone record it and put it
on liveleak? why did she let me watch it
when i was 14?
The mountain, eons old
and wise for what it
has weathered, knows not
to abuse its unimaginable
The hornet, with a life cycle of days, is given an
appropriately small amount
of venom for its size and
stings unprovoked.
Blame neither.
They reflect the
kindness of their worlds.
hope you're doing okay
i'm about to sleep, worked a lot today
will we talk tomorrow?
of course we will babe
that was last month
was I ghosted? I really can't say
I might be single but
I hold onto the hope that it'll message again
what did I say
what did I do
I thought we had something
was it as real to you
how did I push
my dearest dear away
would you tell me if it was over?
was I really so unsafe?
do you remember me
i thought what we had was a lot

i always think of you
am i just someone you forgot

we've been dating for a bit
but goddammit, i sort of loved you

when you curl up with [...],
my old plushie, do you think of what you lost

god, i miss you, and i'm so alone
when i sleep i look at my phone
and look at you, comfy, under the sheets.
i hope the blankets don't make you too hot

what did i do to justify a cold shoulder
what did i say to bring famine to my soul
will you return to explain your hiatus
or will you leave me to rot

whatever it was, i'm sorry
and i hope you get back someday

i keep thinking about the solace under the wheels of a train
do you think i'll feel any pain
i'm at the bus stop and freezing
do you get what i mean?
it's been a week since you called
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
as a loving girlfriend
faded novelty
and so much repetition
but i liked the routine
and you said it was your happy ending

after every chapter there's another
is a better life what i'll get
no longer so trusting a lover
my heart aches, i should have guarded it
It said it loved me but
it hasn't responded to my
text messages in two weeks.
I suppose it's busy but I
haven't even had a single-
word update. It feels like
I'm being avoided. It hurts.
I really did love it. It's hard
for me to love. If it called
and apologized and made it
up to me I don't think it
would fix things. I feel
disrespected as a partner.
We're poly and I know
and have known it is seeing
someone else, and am and
have always been fine with
it. Someone else more
important to it. I was
thankful, really, and still am
that it received more than
only I could provide, a 20
year old fast food worker.
I can't compare to its
college scholarships and
leadership roles. I never
wanted or needed to.
And I didn't ever call as
much as we planned and
I became more of a recluse
than the person it started
dating. But I've been to its
apartment. I took it on
dates, gave it its favorite
stuffed animal, formerly
mine. We don't have a
long history but we do have
a history. I don't even
know if we're broken up.
Tomorrow will be two weeks.
Nearly four months. I feel
doomed to never keep a
relationship longer than
four months.
I wish I had what it
takes to commit suicide.
[...] & [,,,]
-> [...] & [,,,] - 9.7km $D
gas price ($G) - $/gal
gas price $g/gal * 0.264 gal / 1 liter -> mi / liter
mileage ($M) -> mi / gal
mileage $m mi / gal * 0.264 gal / 1 liter -> mi / liter
$m mi / liter * 1.6 km / 1 mi -> km / liter



It messaged me back.
It too has been having
a rough go of things.
I'm in a downward
spiral. I hate this fucking
Christmas music. I use
gum to forget taste, gore
to desensitize sight, music
to ignore my ears,
cleaning work to burn my
nostrils, weed to feel
nothing and forget the
world of which I wish
I wasn't a part.
In fleeting moments of peace
I'm overcome by the beauty
of this simple place. Then
my head by the hair is
dragged back into the dark
mirror and I am once again
submerged in my own misery.
I want my face ripped off,
to drown in my own blood
as it's forced into my nose
by the tubes under my eyes,
to see in the mirror the
muscles that scarcely do
else but frown.
When people knock on the
bathroom door I get nervous
and leave and they always
look mad at me. Why?
I was doing what they wish
to do. Why not be sympathetic
to what we have in common
-- a urinary tract, a digestive
system. I never take
very long.
I agreed to start coming
into work earlier. It felt
like signing my death
certificate. I'm so tired.
This job doesn't pay
enough. I work 50 hour
weeks to be able to
afford basic necessities,
many of which I still forgo.
I charge a battery pack at
work to avoid using electricity
in the apartment. I take
one short shower a week to
avoid water usage and
electricity for the water
heater. I use my phone
flashlight (charged at work
too) to avoid the overhead
I spend a lot of time at
work. 6 days a week, 8-10
hour days, some 6s around
so I don't get too much
overtime. I show up an
hour early. I spend about
half an hour on the bus, before
that half an hour at the
stop. Then another half
hour at the stop after work.
That's two and a half
hours I spend either at
work or commuting, plus
the usual 8. 2.6 * 6 = 13hrs + 50hrs working
= 63 hrs out of the apartment
Then I sleep 8hrs a night,
or at least set aside that
time for it. 56hrs a week.
I have 49hrs a week past
labor, transit, and sleep.
It's time but I wish I had
more. I and my loved ones
are aging. I wanna spend
the prime decades of my life
playing, creating, socializing.
All I do is labor, if not done
by me then someone else. And
I'm exhausted.
What makes matters worse
is that I have some innate,
compulsive need to labor if
on the clock as I am paid
to do. This while those around
me use their cell phones to
watch video and otherwise
idle. I work and they do
not and while I slowly
clean the workplace I
wonder, perhaps realize - though
I had already realized, so
moreso I just turn the
thought around in my head
like a dead pig's sausage
rotating on a warmer at a
gas station - why this
place is so dirty.
I want to go somewhere
clean, or to nowhere at all.
I want to love in a shallow
pool of water, in Lao-Tzu's
moon. I want to cease
living. I want to die. I
want to be killed. I want
to kill myself. Because then,
at least, the work will
be over.
The voices will quiet. I will
calm and my heart will be
still. I will be not too hot,
not too cold, without aching
muscles or aging joints. I
want this finity not as a
termination of my residence
per se but as a respite from
the Hell for which I
constantly volunteer. Many
lean on me; I lean on
nothing. Many know me.
I know nothing. I love many.
And in my heart know I am alone.
I watch a lot of
beheadings and it's
kind of a bummer
that they all focus on
the head and not the
body. The blood pouring
out of the neck as if
uncorked seriously
arouses me. I unironically
want to behead someone
and fuck their windpipe.
I want to be covered
in blood, someone else's
or my own.
I don't know what to
do with this notebook.
Who would want to read
this? What kind of
person would identify
with me?
I took my clothes off
and got in the shower
naked. I feel defenseless
when showering, especially
without a knife beside
me. I shampood my
scalp and conditioned
my hair
and I took the
washcloth and scrubbed
at my face but my
face was stuck too well
to my skull to be so
easily removed. I scrubbed
down my chest and arms
and legs and neck and
felt where I'd like someone
to saw at me, disconnect
my head from my heart.
I was thirsty but it
felt weird to drink the
shower water.
I'm scared of using soap
because it costs so much.
Scared of shampoo and
conditioner because they
cost so much. The
bathroom light and fan.
The water. I scrubbed
at my feet and the bottoms
were gray, the soles
padded with dead skin
because I spend all
my time walking. I scrubbed
at them but not too
much because I'll take any
padding I can get.
I finished and dried
myself with a towel and
got out of the shower
and felt lightheaded and
I don't know why. And
I put on clothes and came
out to the living room.
This is the last page of
the notebook and my
hair smells like lavendar
and my arms like
eucalyptus. And I'm sorry
for being here. At least
I'm finally clean.

The notebook on which this was written will be incinerated and I will move on
from thinking about any of this.


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