Friday, February 10, 2012

: the killer.

I figure that there is some sort of transaction out there that could make me feel some sort of positive emotion, a half-hearted, wistful figure, but I do not really believe this. I believe that the closest I can come to a genuine positive is the false happiness of drugs. Genuine falsehood.
Why, I could live forever on an acid trip in six hours.
Ruminating about these things does not help my pain, and I whimper in my bed of silk, sweat-damp sheets. My guts twist, contort themselves into painful shapes and I snarl at the walls, scream at them for hours as I writhe, before finally forcing myself into the shower, where I sit underneath the hot spray and weep, and play with a dismembered hand from two days ago. I see from my tiny view the way that things are, as far as anyone could go, that this is all just people. People make up the world, and I want it all ended. Every. Last. Bit. God is an invention to justify our murderous impulses toward eachother. Sex is an outlet for rage. Love; elusive. Pain a motivator. Define being or life; both can be ended at the end of a dull knife. There is no safety in this knowledge, I decide, and slip on some black silk shorts to work out in before heading to work. There is no safety in anything but being the one thing the rest of the world will always hate and fear: the killer.