The Obscure

Piercing my heart is a golden dagger, that is God.
Piercing God's heart is a golden needle. That is me.

The doom-criers have landed on the barren soil of my mind, things spin out of human control and we await that doom. When it will come, only God, the Devil, and the dead know. It is not that final doom, spoken of in hushed tones in that good book we christians like to call "The Good Book," but it is a doom nonetheless.

I spoke in my last post of being terribly aware of my own existence, the pointlessness of it, the meaningless of my life. This awareness has grown, rather than lessened, over the short course of time between that post and this. My hatred for our species has doubled, my own self-loathing has, if anything, trebled. There isn't any honour in being a child of the mind; but it seems there is precious little honour in anything nowadays.
Tonight my awareness has reached some sort of culmination, if it goes any further I do believe I will end up very dead soon thereafter. My best idea to solve the problem was to get drunk. Standing up, falling down drunk; drunk so that I could skip hours of time, one moment lying in the backseat of some girl's car, and the next, sitting on the stoop with someone I do not know, telling them all about how Socrates had everything wrong and thinking (in my drunken stupor) that they were listening or did, in fact, actually care.
My second solution (seeing as I lack alcohol, girls with cars, and innocent victims upon which I would spout all of my backward philosophy--but mainly the alcohol, had to get drunk without any vino, boyo) is to stay up late, read way too many books so that I have the thoughts of others crowding my mind instead of my own thoughts, which are growing dark and frightening, and to smoke enough cigarettes to give the family that lives next-door emphysema from the second-hand smoke. It's ok, though, the guy who lives next-door has cost my parents several thousand dollars and is about to cost them several thousand more. He has it coming, I will spare the children.
My third solution is to eat a bullet. There isn't really more to that one because it is kind of a Final Solution (reference to mass-killings, ain't I clever?)
But I think it is the second that will be getting my attentions tonight, just like the night before, and the night before, and so on into infinity. Except for the occasional bout of luck whereupon I do manage to get drunk around girls with cars and wayward philosophers, my life really is that dull. I suppose it's the dullness that gets to you, and it is the lithium I am going back on (keep your fingers crossed, that I don't die from it!) that is bringing my frustrations out, but who gives a damn, really? In a couple of weeks all of the emotions I haven't expressed in the past year or so will have poured out of me (onto my close friends and my family, unfortunately) and then I will be a regular (if slightly depressed) ol' crazy backward philosopher--and I'll be in college then, so I'll be perfectly normal. Angsty and full of too many unsupported words. I'll fit right in.