2/5/09

There is nothing left of me, there is nothing left.

I find almost everything to be a waste of time and effort.  Everything I produce is mediocre and, in the long run, meaningless.  Every day is one step further down, one step further away from anything I had ever hoped to be.

I drag through the mundane days of sobriety, desperately wishing for a way to shut myself off.  A way to block out the constant barrage of useless humanity  that slams against me day after day after day.  There is nothing anyone can offer me that would make this okay, and when the blade is digging into my skin, I am almost accepting of it.

The gashes to the inside of my wrists are getting deeper, and I watch the blood drain out with both indifference and the vague acknowledgement that I am, in fact, alive.  Moments later, it’s irrelevant—and I wonder why I ever cared at all.

The people around me continue to exist wrapped within the blissful ignorance that cushions them against the truth that tears me apart—but then, maybe that truth is mine alone.

Swathed in my own selfishness, lost in my own useless humanity, their truths cannot touch me.  To them, then I am ignorant and I am irrelevant but I am invincible because that which is fundamentally them cannot touch me.  And I will rise above.

All the while sinking, down down down down.