The Obscure

Hey Guys, here's something I wrote about a week ago. It's stupid, but I like it and feel like posting it. I actually don't remember writing it, I just found it in my file hea'.

It’s one a.m. again, and I am here alone—a shining example of the chronically un-cool. Unpopular by choice, and lonely by consequence, once again I find myself writing to wear away at the long unfeeling hours of the night.
Been stuck in a rut, been stuck for quite some time, and it seems endless to me. There is no way out of this ditch, this hole I have dug for myself. I have delved too deep and I cannot climb back out again. My days are spent pretending, and my nights are spent in misery until sleep can overtake me again. I ache for the day when I can quit pretending, throw away my feeble façade and lay myself prostrate before that which can truly bring me happiness. Kisses; roses, covered in the morning dew. He has lost his way, has lost his time, he has no place in this land, in this life, or the next.
So say I, the man who has no path, the man who has no place to stay. I journey onward, ever-walking, never progressing. An endless spinning cycle of yellow and watery damnation, my tendrils stretch toward every far-reaching corner of the earth and sprout up from the ground, wrapping my spindly fingers around the tender white calves of young unsuspecting schoolgirls. They don’t know me, they don’t like me, love is beyond them, but lust does bind us.
The man, the addict, falling and ever flailing. I have found a new route to survival, and with it a more dangerous path to destruction. I crave gin, I crave the knife, I crave the release of the flesh.
I could teach them, you know, the way. I have an innate knowledge, cursed with uncontrollable lust, cursed with the knowledge to seduce and the weakness to be seduced by song and lilt. A sway beckons me, a smile calls me.
Thrown to the ground, I AWAKE. I have found this way, this path to self-destruction. I cannot understand the directions I have been given, I cannot understand the path my contemporaries have chosen. My own path, my own damnation, this is true entropy. Total apathy is the only survival I can find, to not care, to fling myself into the abyss of mindless sleep and lethargy, of torpor and ill-reputed laziness, sloth; tell me a reason why I shouldn’t give up? Why should I not break under the pressure of my fractured mind?
Nightly I find myself wandering for miles, fearing death with my every step, and craving death with each step I complete. Nightly I find myself writing for hours, slaughtering the English language with a thousand angry keystrokes. Nightly I find myself sticking words together, trying to find an outlet for the pressure in my brain.
I was born with an emotional concussion. My soul swells, ever increasing, within the tiny confines of my skull. It is like having my entire being within a vise. Squeezed tighter and tighter by the minute. I was born at a loss, I was born to a sadness. I have grown to live and love under a shadow of despair. That which I love is false, I love, I perceive love, but find only hatred.
Rage can overtake the body and hurl ones brains to mash against the wall. The wall is always before us, we can pass it only in death. To try to pass through the wall in life is to go mad. Jumping the gun, I realize I want not Death itself, but the touch of Pain.
Masochism, catharsis, macabre narcissistic delights. Cut through the flesh. I chew my own wrist to pieces, sucking the blood and sinew down my greedy throat. I chew my bone and swallow the marrow; spit out chunks to the dogs.
I am the great golden sea bass. I have been swimming in the cold depths of the ocean since the dawn of time. Daily, I hurl myself up from the surface of the water and swallow God down my gullet. Daily I lay my eggs, and civilizations are born.
Can he find it? Can he find the way to that which he seeks? Does he know he seeks it?
I for one do not know, I am a lonely traveler on this dusty dirt road I once did call a life. I am the Negro guitarist at the crossroads, I have made a deal with the devil, I am my own devil.
I know he who owns the universe. The inherent moral law to existence is that “If one does not love it, one must be prepared to leave it.”
I do not love existence, I love those who I come into contact with while existing. Therein lies the difference. Suicide would cut drastically into my social life.
The boy has typed for half an hour, let him sleep, he is weary.