Time is passing me by, and I don’t have a hold on it or life anymore. Meanwhile Pitchfork today just gave two best new music tags to the new albums by Earl Sweatshirt and The 1975, both well deserved. On the other side of today today I found myself awake at 4 am my head hanging out a window, my mind dizzy and vomit rising from my stomach, Earl talked candidly through my AirPods about how acid didn’t help his already bad mental health.
The innocence is dead now, and I’m refusing to grow up. Someone told me I have to work hard for the future, I don’t want to believe I do, I’ve got enough on my mind right now, death stalks my every thought, wasted days amount to nothing This past week is the most I’ve written in countless months, I want to take that as a good sign, but I’m all out of optimism, and everyone who knows me, can see that, its painfully apparent.
My bad mental health, spirals and then remains stagnant, my thoughts and past mistakes haunt me as I put my head to a pillow.
Haunted by the unexplainable dreams, that have me awakening covered in sweat and force my eyes to verge on tears.
I’m trying to save myself, whilst fighting myself. Trying to explain my situation gets only silent judgement, and I can’t think a psychiatrist, would be any better, the clinical, like the educational seems to only send me spiralling; so, for now I’ll pop antidepressants and painkillers, hoping for no tomorrow. Yet always the cold truth will hit me; 6:55 am every morning and by 7:00 am, hot, middle-class water will run down my body, my slicked back hair, drenched and dripping. The whole act of showering showcasing through the steamy glass, my rebirth descending from the shower head. My torn-up soul, chewed to pieces, and struggling not to choke, begging for a reprieve, but the water drowning my body, refuses to give it what it wants.
That’s a metaphor that found its meaning, through prolonged existence, I can only wish I was the same, but prolonged existence is only sending me further and further into an abyss, that engulfs all I say and do.
Now I’m wondering who’ll leave me next because I’m a fucked-up depressive? I know someone will, they always do, the door is always open, and I’m sat near, head in hands and the knife being pushed in, waiting only to hear the door close behind me. I just don’t have the bravery to be the person to do it, so instead I just indulge my worsening decisions and choices, and hope I don’t choke and regret, but I still do, every single time.
I’m meant to just focus on myself and hope for the best, but myself doesn’t care, time is running out, exam halls are beckoning me, failure awaits. What’s the answer? Embrace it all and keep continue to live behind rose tinted glasses. Humorously and cynically I don’t feel like I can die till I truly own a pair, and they can embalm me with them on; because I’m living in a metaphor, so I expect I’ll die in a metaphor.
Where does optimism get you if not for delusion?
I know I’m wrong and thoughtless for asking that, but I’m running out of nice thoughts, these posts only seem to be getting fewer and fewer, and darker and darker. Futility lingers in them, you’ll be reading this and grimacing, wondering about the writer and if he’ll still be around, still as depressed in a few years’ time.
Well I’m the writer and it’s not a pretty sight, the hopelessness, self-doubt all behind a mask of everything that gives way to nothing when you look hard enough.
If you want to watch the descent into solipsistic hell and enjoy a Martini whilst you do so, it’s all documented in this blog, so enjoy, I send my regards from the past, if only I could have realised how I’d end up.
Now all I can do is talk about unhappiness,
I guess that’s better than being able to talk about nothing?
Even when nothingness is all I want.
The other thing I want, I appear to have,
and I know I’ll lose it,
its preordained.
Ben Brizell 