There is nothing quite like the void, the absense of connection, or that lack of adjustment to feeling alone. You can fight it, push back at the urge to be violent or the wish to just sink into yourself and shut the whole world out; but the eventualities are plainly stated, you will fail. You will be overcome by desire and soon enough you find yourself in fresh faced confrontations, with bruised nuckles and swollen fist. Enemies always wait until you are at your most vonuralbe, your weakest point where they can push and prod and pry until you react and fuck off everything you’ve worked for.
Sometimes it is just a test, just a way for the frail to get you back for their own feeble minded interiors; with a jealous front they assult your intelligents, over and over and over and over and jump. Jump. Just the quickest of actions. Reach out, grab hold, squeeze.
What may have been holding you together is no longer there, so you push back. Further and further you advance, and before you know it, you have surpassed the point of return. You are now like them, the aggressor, the asshole, the frail taunt faced idiot that with the best of intentions selfishly fakes his way towards an outdate. Fakes it to make it.
Your life, you time, your days have all taken on the very same mantra that brought you to this place, ‘Fuck It’. Oh sure, there will be those that will attempt to bring you back from the edge, summon them on a mound, yet they are unwilling to do the simplilest of things in order to keep you interested, so you dismiss their half heartness for the salt encrusted envelope you took it for.
Now you have seen this, plainly as the look on your face. The misery is real, you said as much. You’ve convinced yourself that this is all you are worth, pain. So suffer. Suffer and wallow and cry and moan and wail. You will soon see that what comes from the blissful unawarelessness of sorrow are the stamps needed to mail your mind to another country, overnight express, one way, no refunds.
Have a good trip.
Categories: Matthew Newton