My only ambition and dream in life for the last two decades has been to get it over with as quickly as possible. I am not interested in my future. I am not interested in my life. I lie and lie to pretend to the people that care about me that I am OK, that I am staying positive, that I care about what happens tomorrow. I lie because they can't help me and because I don't want them to worry, feel pity, or get involved. For every lie I tell I want all this marginally less. For every lie I tell I become marginally more of a scumbag. If the point of life is surviving and staying alive, the exercise is biologically futile from the start. If the point of life is the struggle to stay alive, then I am incapable of defending it to myself and others. All this bullshit, supposedly made worthwhile by the little things, or the great, watershed moments, all this bullshit is just that. And it will remain so whether I am here to fight it or not. I can't live with that. I can't live with it. I am killing time until it is my time to go, when I should be killing myself. I always was a fucking massive coward, and I still am.
Lies, lies, lies.
I must be mentally ill. I don't feel I am for this world. And it makes existence so infinitely empty. I hate myself for regurgitating these pathetic clichés, I hate myself for not being able to just get on with it, I hate myself for all the lies and the cowardice and the crap.
I find myself gradually losing the power of empathy, or at least the ability to fucking care about other people and their problems, many of which are, in practical terms, much more serious than mine. I worry I have become so cold that I can no longer keep up the lies, that I will one day stop pretending. That I will become fully-fledged sociopathic arsehole. I don't care if people live or die. I don't care about earthquakes or viruses or civil wars or genocide or cancer or rape or murder. I don't care if the human race exists or not. I hate myself because I know the world will always be essentially the same. Because people argue, hurt each other, lie, cheat, steal, dream and hope. Hope of what? We will ALL die. For fuck's sake.
But ultimately I hate myself because I envy you all so. I envy you and your fucking banal bullshit, your emotionally active lives, your meaningless aspirations and unquestionable attitude to our animal instincts of food, shelter and procreation. I envy you and I can never be you.
We all get caught up in the bullshit, it is impossible not to. But when you put it in perspective, it is all so utterly devoid of purpose or rationale. How can you go back after that? To pretend? The depressing irony is of course that I still pretend, too.
Lies, lies, lies.
And so I try to fall asleep, I try to forget about tomorrow. And I know I can't do either. And tomorrow is marginally more shit than today, ad infinitum.
