Here I am, twirling around this motel room on crack cocaine, the highest I've ever been on stimulants in months, waiting to meet the floor in a daze I will name later on from my hospital bed. I pounce unafraid, for I am fierce, relentless, and a descendent of my own undying breed.
It is not nonsense my friend. There are many days that go by where I don't wish to be alive. What purpose could I possibly serve living through such selfish means?
So I steadily drive myself insane at the rate I sooner be sniffing glue in an elementary school's closet daydreaming of dawn being met by a deep aversion to detail, one I cannot dispense an opinion to differentiate the one from another.
I'm crazy.
I finally came to realize this months after I left a suicide note for my family and disappeared from my conscience. I'm not here, I swear to whoever is above me, if you look upon my horizons and God tells you she shall come back stronger He is lying to you.
I quit my job.
So I think of crack as a close friend or son in law you aren't allowed to get high with. I just learn the truths as they come to be. It's not profanely spelt in the sky above me. Tis all.
——
I think we're dead.
Lamely watching.
My eyes roll to the back on my head.
Yeah, I think we're dead.
——
It's hard to explain how it feels to be alive. I often forget I'm breathing. Only during those fucking panic attacks do I wake from my often daze and wonder how high a bird flies to escape its predator. Or how many times a week jumping spiders eat their prey.
I see myself as entirely dead inside.
It's not a joke nor a trend I follow. Mental illness isn't a riddle you have to cure inside of you. I've spent enough time wondering what the hell I'm here for. I think if I slept an entire week instead of partying in my lonesome I would know the answer.
But that day isn't coming.
I don't even know where to start. Sobriety is like taking off kevlar and expecting good to come from open fire. It's not for me. (Simply not a trainwreck I left off where spite controlled every decision I ever made.)
So I walk this path alone. I've done enough ketamine and cocaine to make a small village believe in God. I'm falling apart to doorknobs who think they know me.
How many more times do I have to be fucked over and hurt to never make the same mistake again?
If I know anything I'm fully aware no one wants me here. It's not a figment of my imagination — coincidences that come as such don't exist. I don't believe in atheism to a high degree but I thrive on the chaotic shortcomings it causes. I'm a loser.
Whatever.
At least I have dreams.