On the lookout for spiders overhead but I'm okay, they won't get me tonight because I'm not sleeping. Can't sleep with my worries, struggling to survive, struggling to get started even, fallen out with myself, but we'll be friends again.
Pieces of flesh stuck on the ceiling, pieces of consciousness scattered like bones in graveyard on the hill over the sea, blood swelling fuck eyes, aching arteries, teeth cracking, soul-breaking shivers. I have been tested. Like no one has. Van Gogh didn't last this long. Rimbaud lost a leg. Dylan Thomas drank a thousand whiskies to ease the pain but I have seen Christ at the end of the mind in flames, years ago, and I have left my body after the rich food at the Krishna temple made me have strange visions, and I have had a fire in my head, and stars turning in it. A wasp, buzzing. I heard them. I saw them.
This means nothing. Nothing is the best there is. I am sick. I continue. This is not what they think it is. I am not what they think I am. I am not here. I am not writing. I am not thinking. I am not existing. I am not. I am. I. Don't get me started on that!
Sick of money. Sick of work. Sick of seeing. Sick of feeling. Sick of looking forward to nothing. Sick of looking back at nothing. Sick of this moment. Sick of time. Sick of space. Sick of hope. Sick of despair. Losing control. Just sick of control. Sick of knowing. Sick of ambition. Sick of others. Sick of their ideas. Sick of their lack of understanding. Sick of my understanding. Only God can stop the rot.
God has given me something I did not ask for. I never chose this. It was forced upon me. I could give it up but I won't because it is valuable. It weighs me down. It wears me out. It stretches me to breaking point. I am not ashamed. And I have made sure that this is something beyond analysis. I am not stupid. No one will know who I am.
