Because I haven't posted a truly self-pitying blog in quite a while:
How long have a lived without hope? Ten years? Fifteen? Too long; much too long, and I don't know whether it's courage or cowardice that keeps me from cutting my own throat. How long can a man live solely on spite, anger, and pure hatred?
I live on the razor's edge, constantly in danger slipping and spiraling off into the abyss. I cling to whatever keeps me together for another day. The television, the drugs, the slightest human connection. But how many people can I delude myself into imagining a connection with, only to find the reality is that my existence is insignificant to them? There's such a long string of them.
Students of literature would have you believe all this brooding and pain and blackness adds character, a hint of mystique, a touch of romance. Bullshit. There's nothing romantic about it. It hurts. It's why poets and novelists die alone in hotel rooms after drinking eighteen whiskeys.
And it's a vicious cycle; the fewer connections one has, the lonelier one is, the more bleak one becomes. And the bleaker and more depressed and despondent one becomes, the more one pushes people away.
So I'll cloak myself in my spite and anger and hatred and survive another day, alone, uncaring and uncared for.
How long have a lived without hope? Ten years? Fifteen? Too long; much too long, and I don't know whether it's courage or cowardice that keeps me from cutting my own throat. How long can a man live solely on spite, anger, and pure hatred?
I live on the razor's edge, constantly in danger slipping and spiraling off into the abyss. I cling to whatever keeps me together for another day. The television, the drugs, the slightest human connection. But how many people can I delude myself into imagining a connection with, only to find the reality is that my existence is insignificant to them? There's such a long string of them.
Students of literature would have you believe all this brooding and pain and blackness adds character, a hint of mystique, a touch of romance. Bullshit. There's nothing romantic about it. It hurts. It's why poets and novelists die alone in hotel rooms after drinking eighteen whiskeys.
And it's a vicious cycle; the fewer connections one has, the lonelier one is, the more bleak one becomes. And the bleaker and more depressed and despondent one becomes, the more one pushes people away.
So I'll cloak myself in my spite and anger and hatred and survive another day, alone, uncaring and uncared for.
There's nothing romantic about it. It hurts. It's why poets and novelists die alone in hotel rooms after drinking eighteen whiskeys.
So, so true.