Psychoanalyst has optimistic hope but she ain't gotta clue how cold it is inside. My arm hurts, my rib hurts and that gnawing throbbing hateful niggardly ache in my head continues without mercy. Truth is - I do not have not and for some cockamamie reason will not take my meds. The depression that goes with this masochistic existence has become such that I am numb to it and all that is around me. Nothing matters. Nothing ever matters.
Control was right - it will never stop. Ever. My rationale and conclusion is what is the point? The point of anything human? Getting up, washing, eating, talking, drinking, fucking, smoking, shaving, living? The great cosmic joke is - there isn't a point. The great joke of God is suffer horribly without alteration and endure it for that is all I offer. Dios, you are such a kidder.
Why aren't I laughing?
4 comments:
without the opiate of religion, it's really hard to pretend that life has a point--but you gotta try, right?
LOL I just noticed I have u linked as "Borroweed Flesh." It has been this way for awhile now...
Indeed.
mkf: Try? At what? What is there too try? And to what point? I am sincerily honest when I state that there is nothing left that both interests me or to try. This is not overly dramatic rant - it is the naked truth. This life that I had lead has finally taken it's toll - but then again, what should I have expected? A happy ending?
hermes: Yeah - noticed that from the get go - I kinda liked it.
yeah, but what if what comes next is even more boring? that thought, if nothing else, is enough to keep me in the fight.
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