Life, Death and Suicide

Let's all feign sanity for the sake of morality!

This week's theme is suicide. Why not? I want to explore what the fuck suicide is, and how it pertains to me.

Have I contemplated suicide? Sure. I'm almost positive everyone has at some point or another, but the seriousness of the contemplation varies.

I'm not sure I'll die of natural causes.

To be honest, I've always expected a violent, or at the very least, premature, ending.

Why?

Various reasons, a lot, really.

I live life how I want to live it. I know that sounds cliche, people really like to throw that kind of ideology around like it fucking means something on a larger scale; it doesn't.

I'm just not smart enough to be society's bitch; not completely anyway. I just can't, I'm incapable. We live in a three dimensional world stuffed into a fucking box. There are four walls crushing us in and all they have to keep us in is fear and a fucking Chair. 'The chair'. Oh I'm so scared, maybe they don't realize the people they're dealing with?

I haven't really feared anything in a long time. What is there to fear? Fear itself? Why? What is fear?

Fear is an emotion, I know that. Fear is a noose around the neck of the innocent, of the happy, of the living.

I've known a lot of people. I've watched people die. I know what fear looks like, I know what fear tastes like; sweat and blood and honey. Some people really fear death. Some people really fear not fearing death. That's really the scariest thing, isn't it? Because if you don't fear death, what kind of shit life are you living?

The life of a psychopath, the life of the depressed, of the oppressed and the suppressed? Maybe, I don't know. I really don't care that much and people can't understand that.

I don't care! People say that, do they mean it? Not usually. People care, people really fucking care--if they care then why do they say they don't? It's called affirmative thinking; "I say, therefor I AM'.

What bullshit, a crock of shit, nonsense.

Why am I writing this? What is my point?! Get to it, SAY something meaningful and profound! What the fuck, what the FUCK are you doing blathering on? Maybe that's my point, life is pointless, this is pointless. What do you have to do tomorrow? Think about it, errands to run, people to see, lies to tell, people to fuckover and placate and screwover and substantiate. Does it make you happy? Does it make you sad? Does it make you angry? If you can tell; if you could answer those questions, THAT is the difference between you and me.

Fuck empathy. I'm me and you're you. Fuck your feelings and fuck my apathy. What are we? Animals. Ruff ruff.

I really lost it the other day. Lost it? What was it about? Who pushed me? That's not how it works. Everything is internal, I'm internal not external. I am a brain wrapped in flesh, not a heart in a protective shell. I lost it not because of the confrontation or because of anyone but Me Me Me. I lost it because here I was, being passionate and rageful--RIGHTFULLY SO. And what did I feel? Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing, I feel nothing. I felt nothing.
That's a lie, I feel something. Words are so inadequate, really fucking useless. I know a lot of words, use a lot of words. But words alone are dead, meaning with no context.

Nothing is an emotion. Nothing is a feeling, that's why people fucking say it. When you literally feel nothing, what THAT feels like is confusion, because nothing is there, there's nothing to analyze, nothing to compare with, it's like an anxiety attack, being short of breath and drowning quietly without movement or tears or any of the dramatics that make asphyxiation poignant. THAT kind of nothing is what I feel when a 'loved' one dies or something happens that should fucking destroy me but instead I'm standing in the rain on the side of the road fucking contemplating what I'm going to eat for dinner tonight and wondering what's on TV.

That other kind of Nothing, that Nothing is a noun instead of a fucking adjective, that Nothing is incredulity wrapped in a rage so whisper-quiet it's like you don't feel it at all. It's confusion, frustration and rage in a way most people have never felt before. Because it's silent, it's quiet and it's docile. It is so fucking quiet part of you wants to kill it in outrage.

You don't get it. Of course you don't. Some of you will, some of you won't. I'm trying to explain but all I have is words and all you have is eyes.

When you sit a person down on your brand new comforter and put a gun to their head what do you expect to feel? When you watch a man holding his dying dog over a fucking gutter as the blood mingles with sweat and tears as it cascades to the earth like a morbid waterfall, what do you expect to think? Anguish, incredulity, fucking outrage, disgust, fear, Empathy. What?

Now tell me, how do you feel when none of those feelings happen? When nothing you see or do can start your heart again. You're dead. You're a walking corpse. People hate you you fucking freak. Why don't you love me?! Why don't you care? Who the fuck are you?! WHY DO YOU LIE? Why do you PRETEND!? You, my friend, are a monster. Welcome to the club. Do you feel cool? Of course you don't, if you did you wouldn't be you.

What am I saying, what is the point? A literary instructor once said to me almost rhetorically, "Why did the writer write these words, tell these stories, say these things, if they were all lies? Why did he lie, what  was he trying to do?" I didn't say anything for awhile, I just thought. I thought of the poignant words, the hyperbole, the breaking of the fifth wall and the overall feeling of frustration I could read between the words and I answered, "He wants us, the reader, to feel."

I've faced death more than once. I have, more than once, had the realization that death was around the corner and every time what I felt was an anticlimactic sort of relief; the kind you get when you're told you can sleep for the first time in days. I don't fear death because all the things people fear of losing because of death, I've already lost. That doesn't mean I'm 'depressed', it doesn't mean I'm 'suicidal' so much as bored. Bored bored bored. If you asked me to sum up psychopathy in one word I'd say "Boredom'. Hell, maybe even 'frustration' would work. I'm curious if anyone felt anything while reading this. My mood didn't change an iota, THAT, is frustrating.

Welcome, to life after death.

Wax Poetic

Yes, my friends, I take requests,

Ashes of the soul askew,
crooning morbid fantasies of me and you.


Love is such a trite word,
liable to flee an Empath like a bird.


Sensitivity made humanity weak,
so quick to prostrate itself at cupid's feet.


I assure you Darling, I'm no man but God,
no woman but Celeste, not a prince but a Frog.


Not Shackled by humility,
nor prone to kind civility.


Who am I but you?
My cat, I only follow you.


A block of ice to which you stray,
the little Devil with which you play.


Never compare those foolish boys' love,
to the reverent fondness of a God.


My affection is a selfish thing,
it does not need reciprocation to unsheathe.


Boredom is what I greatly abhor,
you vanquish it, my foreign Whore.


My interest should be your greatest prize,
for love is fickle by and by.


But if lying is what you really want me to do,
of course my dear, I love you.

More Stress

A Cautionary Note: This post was written more intoxicated than usual and therefor, may make less than full sense. I will edit it at a more sober time. 

I'm almost positive I've made a post about stress before, but oh well. This is on my mind now. There are two kinds of stress to me; stress I thrive in and stress I dissolve in.

Most stressful situations I find exhilarating, but right now, the shit I'm dealing with now, is attempting to pry the masks from my face. I am a somewhat obsessive person by nature, once I get an itch it must be scratched. I cannot stand when everything I've ever worked for is up for grabs, liable to slip through my fingers if I let it. It enrages me to think all the work I've put in, all the lying, finagling and pretending could result to nothing more than if I would've been smoking dope and flaying whores for the past months.

It feels as if, ever since I could walk I have been constantly striving for success. It feels that way because it's true. I was never a child, I was born thirty and from the moment my synapses began firing I knew what I had to do. What I had to sacrifice in order to be a success- not to please anyone, not to be a contributing member of society but because I need power and influence like I need to breathe, like I need to hunt in the night-that's just always been a fact.

It is irritating, that I have this need, or rather, these 'needs' -to be this person.  There are so many other ways I could live, that would be preferable in many ways, but that's not enough for me. I'm not saying I need to be the next President of the Universe or anything so grand as a dictator, but I do need to dwell in the upper echelons of society, my ego demands it.

And when your life is so empty of anything but this one need (Okay, maybe two), any kind of setback is massive in your psyche. I have nothing to love, nothing to care about, nothing to focus all of my destructive energy on but the accomplishment of this goal. That thought is simply eerie.

It sounds dramatic to say that these goals are the only thing between me and my other need, between me and prison, but unfortunately this is the case. Perhaps that is why I developed such an obsession in the first place, a defense mechanism, a distraction from myself. Who knows. All I do know is that it is one or the other. There is no way I can control myself if I do not have this buffer- this diversion of my darker focus.

And this is not to say that I am in any way 'giving up'. Such a concept is not even fathomable to me. There is no danger of me quitting, only of me losing myself along the way. Of focusing so entirely on this goal that my mask slips and hellfire creeps around the edges and darkness oozes out of my eyes until the only thing that could stop me is The Chair- and by then it will be too late.

Psychopaths are naturally at an advantage in many ways- but all of that is evened out by one glaring flaw. The utter apathy of our existence makes it difficult to accomplish goals in the long term. Life is so boring sometimes I question the difference between life and death.

People can not fathom why I do not fear death. That the idea of a natural disaster or brutal attack does not leave me with apprehension or anxiety. Besides the fact that we will all die eventually- the thought of death brings a certain level of relaxation. Just the idea of no more pretending, no more working, no more striving- is blissfully pleasant. This does not mean I intend to carve the arteries out of my throat, but rather, that should death look me in the face I will not tremble, but rejoice. And if it does not, I will go on, just as I am.

I do not feel loss or desolation at failure. I feel an intense burning frustration that fuels the fires of my obsession. The problem comes when this fire becomes too hot to hide behind a facade of innocuous normalcy. I can only hope I am capable of keeping the flames of insanity at bay.