If you want to
kill yourself, kill what you don’t like. I had an old self
that I killed. You can kill yourself too, but that doesn’t
mean you got to stop living.
It isn’t that I don’t enjoy talking to people, I just
hate small talk. I don’t want to talk about your holiday
plans or your body clock or your bowel movements. I don’t
care. Pretending to care drains me. I want to know what keeps you
up at night.
And the Lord said, ‘I thought once you all invented
telescopes you’d be content in the knowledge that the
universe is beautiful, and you’re a part of it. I
don’t know why that isn’t enough.’
I am tranquillised and tranquil as this train trembles and
clanks through all the dim synaptic tunnels ever buzzing in my
brain and I breathe and rest my head back and forget regrets
and setbacks as if bleeding all my darkness down an
interstellar drain
❝ I wish I wrote the way I
thought;
Obsessively,
Incessantly,
With maddening hunger.
I’d write to the point of suffocation.
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns,
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal
nothing.
And I’d write about you
a lot more
than I
should.