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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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SoulDome
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i live in a room constructed by myself. it's not the tangible type of
room, nor the type that you "crash" in when you need a place to sleep or
hang out. my room crashes all on its own. it's soundproof and airtight,
and the only thing that leaves it externally conspicuous is surface
tension. that is to say, if you inflate a balloon under some dirt, the
dirt's going to shift a bit to make room for it.
everything stays inside. nothing may escape until the pressure's gotten
too much and the balloon will pop. for some reason, i have a deathly
trepidation of the room exploding. not so much in and of itself, but...
but just what would happen. i'm sure it's something that i wouldn't want,
were i in a sane state of mind (is there such a thing?). it might be
self-destructive, or maybe just plain explosive. bloody or cacophonous. i
would say "hateful or just a bleeding of despair", but i've been noticing
more and more that the line separating those two is smudged into a pastel
blend. there's almost no difference at all. none except how the light
reflects off of them. anger is a fighter's despair, and desperation is a
vacuous anger. desperation is all the energy and anti-energy of hatred
with the fight removed. if anger is a serrated knife, then desperation is
a serrated handle.
the room itself is kind of like a window. not like i, myself, am behind a
pane of glass, but as though something within me is. i suppose that,
should it be true that such things as souls exist, it is my soul
contained by this alienating cellophane. like there's just some...some
block between my body and something within it, and each needs the other
so it's just hurting both. like two lovers in cells a little past two
arms' reach apart.
in short, it always feels like something's missing. i don't know what
"it" is, nor "something", but..."it" needs that something, and that
something is not in "it". everything has this unmistakable and
disorientingly bewildering sense of lacking something. everything is a
broad term, eh? needs to be. "everything includes how i feel, what i
think, my ambitions, other peoples' ambitions, other people themselves
(both individually and collectively), ideals, beliefs, nature, the world,
the universe, the atoms that make it all up... it goes on.
sunsets hypnotize me. a beautiful landscape or scene captivates me,
especially if it has the smell of fresh, un-building-or-exhaust-perverted
air to it. i love the fall air smell and feeling right now. it makes me
want to run away from every person in the world, to my own spot in some
gorgeous woods, and just...expire there, slowly taking in the splendor of
my surroundings as i descend into a peaceful reverie of death.
needless to say; i won't. life's not quite that kind.
never has it been easy for me to appreciate this fact much, but...i live
for the little things. i don't mean the little hugs or kisses kinds of
things, or the "good things come in small packages" banal bullshit. i
mean, nintendo. guitar. masturbation. email. anything that will kill the
time in the day with the least pain and do its best to keep my mind off
of the gnawing and caustic sense of utter sequestration from the rest of
the race that i feel like i have imposed on me. i think i've been living
my whole life on the subconscious tenet that i would just live for
whatever pleasure i could wring out of life until i can get no more, and
then just kill myself. is that not fucking PATHETIC? the rest of the
known world just sucks it up and moves on when they feel like something's
bothering them, but not me -- oh, no! i just shut right down and wait to
off myself.
i honestly would feel compelled to kick myself if i didn't feel like
that's all i HAVE been doing all these years...
i don't know if i'll be another suicide statistic or not. i really don't.
i refuse to make my mind up about something like that until i really feel
compelled to decide. it's not an easy decision... "to be, or not to be?"
maybe it's just the constraint that bothers me. i read an article in
which the author said that he tried promiscuity to commit suicide; hoping
that he'd get AIDS. suddenly, after the 17th time or so, he realized with
horror that he could also be infecting his new partners if he'd actually
succeeded in the contraction. he stopped, and it turned out that he was
clean. now, that kind of thing makes no sense to me. i mean, it does and
i've considered it, but i don't like the idea of that kind of time limit.
i also remember a FUCK article about how much the author hated
suicidalism and depressive people talking about killing themselves with
nonchalance or even enthusiasm. well, although i don't think i'm quite
laughing this off anyway, i'm making no promises that i'm going to do it
any more than not. is that a good sign? i can't tell anymore.
"can't tell." i can't tell anything anymore. can anyone tell me; are
there REALLY people who enjoy living? like, people who look FORWARD to
the thought of living; to the future? or is it all faked and a sham, and
i'm a black sheep in a black flock, after all?
i don't know. thanks for listening, my room got a little too hot and the
air just a bit too thin. i think i'll return to it now; i've got a fine
sunday to kill from inside it. perhaps some day i'll air the place out; i
just haven't figured out how. in the meantime, you know where you can't
find me.
-agrajag
http://www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/Club/1610/Dep.html
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