Something Nameless In The Night

12th July 2018

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How do I go on like this? Each moment an encounter with the infinite complexity of my delusions and failures, a reacquaintance with the shifting sands upon which my experience is built. A concession to the frightening possibility that existence itself possesses no firmer grounding than that of my experience of it, nor any foundational sands upon which to shift – but is rather implacably ambiguous, in and of itself, above and beyond the epistemic pitfalls of conscious experience; an idea that is as despicable to me as it is out of my control. Each love and loss a eulogy for the dying child within me, the person who believes that it’s worth the fucking trouble. Each destitute vestige of everything left in me ebbing pathetically by way of the currents of destiny, leaving my ashes to desperately fend for themselves.

Second by minute by hour by day, I witness my body pollute and decay. Waiting anxiously for death to deliver me from my fear of it. I hate my life for being unworthy of the title, for being less than deserving of eternal recurrence; yet I feel doomed to recurrence of sickly subversions of my intent to create a life that would be. At every moment I feel the weight of eternity bearing down upon me, the epic accident of all things. Sense the presence of that unity within and around me, and feel trapped by it in a manner not dissimilar from the way one of my skin cells might feel about its predicament as a subset of something so much grander. Its entire being subject to the whims of my own arbitrary ramblings. Doomed to extinction in short order, regardless of the course those ramblings take.

My memories are fading, failing me, alchemizing into those of someone else’s life. The only option left is to make new ones; to become someone that you can still remember when the person you were slips gracelessly out of existence. But how do you do that when you lack the courage to venture out into the world and seize your trajectory through the chaos? When you’re aware that, invariably, you’ll lose that person you’ll become before you even have a chance to try to remember them? When you hate yourself?

How do you deal with this? How do you feel this and then turn around to do your fucking taxes?

11th October 2016

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“You want me

To tell you a story

But I am weary

Of entertaining

I’ll have more

To say when I’m happy

‘Course, then I’ll have less

To sing”

-Ani Difranco, Minerva