Writing without a subject is difficult,
almost like trying to walk somewhere with no directions on how to get
there. Almost. I'm writing because I am feeling very anxious. I am
living in a situation where, no matter what problems arise, I am the
first candidate for blame. It's been like this for a very long time,
to the point where I can't remember not feeling antagonized in some
way, for something I literally didn't -do-. Paranoia? Doubtful. I blame myself for a lot of things, and my
self-directed blame is usually the least deserved and the most
unnecessarily drawn out. I am living in a situation where I have no
future. I have all the freedom in the world (or about as much as one
can get with no wheels and no cash) and there is nowhere to go. I am
living in this situation, day by day, sending out little messages in
bottles in the form of job applications to the business district of a
tiny town that doesn't have any space for newcomers. I am constantly
told “nothing is wrong with you, you're fine.” I am a nervous
wreck by nature. I couldn't calm down if someone told me nothing
would be wrong for the rest of my life. I regularly endure bouts of
depression which are becoming more and more suicidal in their nature. I am almost completely incapable of focusing on anything long enough to complete it, and my obsessions lead to nothing, nowhere, as my center of attention drifts aimlessly through electrified fields of tension. It's just how it is. Nothing wrong.
So I'm stuck in this cycle, and my
efforts to escape have proven totally fruitless. Still stuck in a
bedroom, dodging blame for whatever goes wrong in this house. At
least I have a bed now. It's been a long time since I've slept on a
bed for a long period of time. A real bed, with a memory foam
mattress. Not a wafer-thin futon, not an air mattress in the living
room of yet another apartment I can't afford to live in, losing
friends in the process of my material transfer of disappointment.
It's probably been about 5 years. The emptiness of this way of life
is gut-wrenching, hollow little vessels floating on a calm sea,
sometimes bumping into eachother, sometimes isolated indefinitely.
The loneliness of the internet-based life for me is beyond dull, beyond
tedious. I can only sit still and glare at the joyous lives I see
from this static hell, fulfilling dreams I can only barely begin to
muster. Their lives must be so fun and free, it must be a real
pleasure to not languish in torturous imprinted self-bondage and
apathy. Discomfort is the only emotion I feel. A constant, jarring
mosquito-like buzz suspended in a vacuum of dead air.
I can barely write anymore. Not that I
was ever a pro. My mind is reaching its nadir of novelty in my
increasing inability to relate to others. The last time I opened
myself up to anyone, the last time I thought I could heal someone,
like a leprous physician, my trustee took it upon herself to threaten
me with her own life. Several times. This right now is painful
grinding. Statuesque, grim entities of dominance push me out of sleep
to continue the hamster wheel of my struggling against the
inevitable, looming collapse of my faith in its entirety. Gargoyles
watch outside my door, the path to where sustenance lies is guarded
well with bows set to fire arrows of shame. Unwelcome, I am an
unwilling prisoner of my own construct. Deep, unforgiving shame for the
negation of an act. An unfulfilled promise, a negotiation the terms
of which I cannot meet, at the cost of my survival, at the cost of my
last refuge as an excommunicated priest of all-encompassing
nothingness. It goes on. No direction. These angels took everything I
loved, stabbed me and left me to die.
