What need is there to weep over parts of life? The whole of it calls for tears. – Seneca
There is nothing left. I feel empty. No love, no guilt, no regret. I have hated everything out of myself, even the pain, cutting myself over and over every waking second for my sins. However, I am still reeling from the meandering chaos that has become my life, nauseous in the wave after wave of this orchestrated madness. Silence has become my friend anew. Each noise, however small, puts me on edge, “This is it. They are coming for me.” Who “They”? They, the accusers, the executioners. The arbiters of morality. And I have angered them. I have fucked up beyond redemption, at least for the foreseeable few months. Not any time soon will the fires and smokes of the raging destruction quiet down. I have toyed with the idea of using a different name, and in my deepest anguish, fantasizing of moving some place new, to start all over again. This is childish, but it provides a comfort that I gladly embrace.
I still want things, the same things that got me into this muck, the sundry lips and smiles and various loves and passions. Michel was right, what makes you laugh also makes you weep. I should re-read that small gem, and console myself since my problems are not unique, this is not special or worth crying over. Do I even have the right to cry? My brain understands this. My heart, no. I should not be too concerned about this, I feel, yet here I am, concerned. That was no way to live, the hiding and skulking about, fearing every shadow and trick of light, mistaking them for the pitch-forked and torching mobs. This is no way to live. Even if I am still scared, at least now I am unafraid of being exposed. I am already naked. This is me, in all my gore and glory. I may as well talk to myself. I fear very few will listen to my side of things. At this point, it may not matter. Why would it, after the wilfully ignorant wreckages I have left behind? That part of me has to die.