There is a moment when your brain is frantically looking for some reference point, some form of existing that reminds you that you're in fact alive, still hanging in there, between past and future. That you have a face and objective existence. That you are not a shadow of your own imagination. In moments like this, I throw it all out there, the images of body that is not mine. That face. Is different through the lens. In the mirror. In my head. In the eyes of the others. It’s a face I cannot trust. A façade of my consciousness that means nothing at all and speaks the words no one wants to hear.
It is not feeling or not feeling that is a problem. It's excruciating boredom and feeling of non existence that is not that peaceful peaceful or calm. It's like a bone you can't crack for eternity. These days eternity feels like a very long time. The blink of a human life exists out of time.
I look at everything for once as if for the last time. The opposite of what I usually do. I am grateful and I wonder if I'd miss it. I feel bored about it and tears do not come anymore. I know all there ever will be is a thick layer around me. Of cold, dense matter that ever consumes the sounds of my beating heart. I give love, I never know it.
If I could give you what you want I would choose to disappear. All I ever am is an inconvenience to the world that sees intensity as a fault. We grew to be a world in which lack of heart and feelings is welcome. It makes us more efficient, it makes us result oriented, the road is smooth because we become predictable machines. It's not the sound of a beating heart anymore, it's a ticking clock. It's security in predictability. The only way you can predict how things go is to kill them before their time. I thought I would give myself up and the only thing that kept me was the very last of human decency. How did it survive? I have a cockroach-like decency. I thought that if nature allows my existence, if I believe in things, there must be at least one person who thinks in a similar way. I am special. I am not that special. I am a spy, a stranger in this world. I create worlds. It’s a danger to let the other step on my roses. Fuck off from my roses, you offend them with your eyes.
It feels like life is what happens to you between the time where you’re outside of yourself. You come back with more wrinkles. More grey hair. I feel like someone knocked me out of my orbit and I’m just drifting there, in vagueness. This body does things. This body is not mine. This body one day will be gone and all left behind will be an idea. And that, if we are lucky. I feel like I’m made of hot ashes. Everything burns or doesn’t feel at all. Sounds are painful. Light is painful. Everything is shutting down, like strobe lights in an empty office, one by one. I want to disappear. Dissolve. I scratch my skin under boiling water. It hurts the way it feels or maybe I feel nothing at all. I cannot really remember the difference. This body is not mine. Everything slows down. I’d like to will my heart to stop before it explodes into a thousand shards.
I get manic in pursuit of my goals. It's not a pleasure it was just yesterday, when I was looking forward to a ride. How many times I had to stop thinking about my death, because I had things to do. I have that book to write, no matter what. It is not you, it is not me, it is it, the parasite that wants to keep me alive so that it can live. There are things bigger than my happiness. There is also the Other. I don't trust the Other. The biggest lies are told straight in your eyes. Which one of you is talking? Until there is an alignment of thought, word and gesture, you're one of many.
I wake up. This time I don’t remember anything but I have a feeling of being interrupted. I open my eyes, I look around but my body doesn’t move. It looks familiar but it doesn’t reassure me. It feels like wet cotton. It’s grey and heavy. I am sinking. I realise that feeling like that is a privilege. Of having a ceiling to stare at when you’re too tired to even think of ending it. I look at the list of people who committed suicide in last years. Even those, you know, famous rich ones. How many we don’t know the name of. But they were someone’s world. Am I going to be anything more than a deleted Facebook account? I feel pathetic. What usually helps, this time isn't working. For me it was always important to keep doing the basic things no matter what. Take that shower, make that coffee. Go for a walk. Walks have been suspended, since I’m almost rolling out of bed downstairs trying to feel better and write. Something in my brain broke. I think it was the last of hope. That things can ever be different. That patterns can change. Maybe the only way to break the pattern is to sign out. But what if non existence feels exactly like that? There are no guarantees. Every evening is the same. I can't connect to the people, to reality. I don't want to feel this way. I don't want to make others pay for my sadness. I don’t want to be stronger. I was always stronger. Stronger than everyone. Stronger than myself. Than my self.
Inside the thoughts are still flowing from one object to another. Everything is slippery to touch, everything is liquid, porous, mercurial, untamed. From one dead end to the other. Everything is sewn with a purple thread. I don’t quite understand the overlapping senses. The fluidity of the things, that I usually revere in, becomes hostile and overwhelming. Every word and movement seem to be unnecessary. I see the past moments like the thin layers of puff pastry spread over present time. I don’t understand what I’m looking at. I remember the touch of someone’s skin. I remember a voice. I don't know where is the border between one object and the other. I feel like my spirit is poisoned. I feel like there are malefic densities around me trying to take advantage of my vulnerability. It might be madness in the corner of my eye. Shapes and sounds that often feel like an ecstatic divine playground, now feel sick and scary. When you don’t see the border between your and the other and you don’t know if you are their sickness or they are yours.
You know what happens. People hide the fights they fight. It makes us feel pathetic and weak. We don't say that aloud. We don't want to be a burden, we don't want to be unprofessional. We don't want to be labelled as needy, pussies, attention seeking. We don't want our deepest pains to be seen as superficial immature needs. So we hide and hide.
There are different things that pull us out of the dark swamp of masochistic self destruction.
The other night I was in the kitchen. I just stood there, staring at the space thinking, how interesting, in some states we are able not to blink for a very long time. I couldn’t recognise objects around me and my spine was not able to hold me straight. I was trying to find meaning in the cup of tea. Every movement seemed pointless and it took me a lot of energy to make the tea happen.
I wrote to a friend, I said I want to die. Now that's a conversation starter. Awkward. People have different reactions. He rushed into reassuring me and saving me from something there's no salvation from. When you forget about time for a minute…well you can't because you'll suddenly bring a “minute” to your consciousness, but let's just pretend. If there is no time we are all walking dead. I felt bad for ruining my friend's day. My fights are mine alone.
I was in the shower and I couldn't feel if the water was hot or cold. It was, nothing. I thought, I would not go like this. I would not put on the others a shock and trauma of finding me, messing their bathroom with an overdramatic gesture. It's tacky, such a cliché, such a sticky thought. I would not have them calling for an ambulance. Shit. How inconvenient it would be to find a body. Better to go somewhere where nature has its ways. But then it would seduce me back into existence. This would make it harder to let go and sink back into the soil. Everything seemed too messy and ineffective. What if it doesn't work out? What if life will get even shittier afterwards? But if it gets shittier, it means it isn’t as bad yet? So perhaps its not so bad at the moment? What if now I can do whatever I want? Insult whoever I wanted to insult? Well I do it anyway, I'm always honest and dramatic. Life is an act of poetry. Let me then write all the goodbye letters. I could write to a lover “before I go, I want you to know...It is all.your.fault.”. I had so many letters to write. But at least, at least I could finally use that fine stationery I was keeping for a special occasion. I started making a list in my head off all the things preparing me for the exit. I am not a slob, I need to go with style. Then I realised. Damn, it’s gonna take me a lifetime to get ready for my funeral
And it struck me, what I always knew. Perfectionism is gonna kill me one day.