Click-clack
Hell.
A hell of my own making.
What better way to live is there?
The gods must laugh when we make references to the places they roam as if we know a thing about them.
Or maybe they pity us because they can tell it is true.
All of the above?
I keep trying to remind myself that
If I die,
Then they win.
I don't know who "they" is.
It's something I say to pretend I'm not fighting myself and hacking away at the insides of my own mind for comfort.
Is it the faceless society I'm detached from yet surrounded by?
My blurred co-workers?
The shadows in my head?
I try to remind myself that I lose if
I die but then I realise
I'm losing either way.
So I take myself away the way I did as a kid who was
Constantly on their own with mainly stuffed animals and
Story books for company.
There's a thousand different poisons to pick from.
I choose fantasy.
Fiction.
Books.
Movies.
The internet.
Daydreams.
Sometimes I'm scared of falling asleep because the moment it happens, I'll wake up in another day.
I used to stay up on the days I hated myself most till 5am, 6am, 7,
Hoping the suffering would draw me to a better conclusion.
Sleep wasn't the answer.
Sleep was a kindness; a moment of being a non-entity.
Existence was the hell and now I've
Led myself even deeper into that dark, empty space,
Scrawled my name over the front door in blood and nail clippings,
Fake smiles and ironed shirts.
In some other world, I'm climbing some mountain somewhere or
Hopped up on space berries
Or on a train to one of my many unearned mansions or
In a coma
Or dead.
In any of these universes, would I really be happier then?
In another world I have more to me than a jangly typewriter as a best friend and
Piles of papers full of the dark muck of my indecision that'll never go away.
I'll never fully want to leave and I'll never fully want to stay.
Not at my job.
Not with friends, real or imagined.
Not with some hypothetical lover.
Not with this apartment and this damned life and this jangly old typewriter that I like the click-clack noises of.
You piss me off and I love you more than I love my own father and I
Hate myself just a little for it.
Alright, then.
I'm finished now, I think.
With no fucking clue of what I wrote and all intention to hide you away like all the others when I've read it.
The truth burns too much.
To sleep or not to sleep, that is the question.
To dream or not to dream.
To breathe or to die; I'll be here typing and bored and lost until the clock strikes midnight and
This game called life ends in overtime and a neither satisfactory nor unsatisfactory draw.