I Am Alone. There Is No God Where I Am

Those were the years of pain. At that time, I was exhausted from the frequent and relentless attempts to get myself back on the right path. Everything I held close fell from my hands the moment I grasped it, and I cheated on every girlfriend I ever had, not out of hatred, God forbid, but due to a desperate attempt to fill some bottomless void.

Now I am drained, sunk into a terrible fatigue. Through the window shutters of my spacious and alienating apartment, blows the same evening breeze that comes from the sea, and crumbling wishes into rust. Above my head, night moths flutter, their eyes dark and sealed, and they don't notice the hand trying to bring about their demise. Soon, the purple and glowing bulb will turn on, tempting them to caress the source of light until their final and inevitable incineration. And the sound of their sizzling will echo in the void, reminding me of what happens to those who are easily dazzled.

Then I will go to the living room and drown another porn actress in my wet sorrow. She will have no chance; she will float in the thick and hereditary material until her head sinks and will not rise again. She will probably be a brunette with a long name divided into different syllables. I wonder what shitty life led her to my screen, or maybe she had a warm and embracing childhood in her Latvian village—I don't really know.

I also wanted to write that recently my appetite has returned, after it died along with the idylls and moral dictates. The symptoms of relief from the depression included devouring anything that contained blood and fat. The blame for my dismal state can be attributed to various reasons, but chiefly to a brief fuck with some girl from an anonymous firm at a random street corner. Afterwards I returned to my apartment, threw up my soul in the toilet, and went back to sleep next to my dozing girlfriend. That night I realized—I will never be faithful to one, not to a woman and not to God. Because that's how it is, these selfish hazel eyes never saw beyond me, and I failed to keep my desires in check.

All I can do is smother those voices within me as if they were small fires. But the problem is that I'm an overt pyromaniac, and the allure of burning gets to me in any situation. I still wish that everything here would catch fire and rise in flames - so what if I built it all with my ten fingers?

The hardest moments for me are when shame and regret spread in every direction. They squirm inside me like starving maggots, greedily devouring the lowest and most repulsive levels of my personality. I don't know, maybe it's okay to let things rot on their own; then some new organism will thrive within the dead tissues.

Recently, I realized that these depressions consume me to the bone. On nights like these, the inner worm would crawl up to my ear canal and whisper in a hoarse, yet caressing voice: "You are alone, and there is no God where you are." Then I would still catch myself pondering: so what if I am sunk deep in the forty-nine gates of impurity? So what if I constantly break my own heart? After all, it is well-known that broken hearts beat forever, an eternal guarantee of their existence. But how much can a person quarrel with himself, with the instincts embedded in him? And what did I even ask for—reconciliation? Self-acceptance? A real hug? I too deserve a small taste of all these.

I look out the window again. The night is black and deep, and the visibility is poor. My pain pierces it like orange tracer bullets across high-voltage lines. All I want is to signal to the plane circling above me not to crash into me.

An aviation disaster. Heavy smoke billowing. Casualties and injuries everywhere.