It’s everyone’s favorite time again. I’ve hit that critical mood where I do away with the piss poor poetry, thoughtless think pieces, and agonizing anecdotes, all to see how many self-deprecating remarks I can throw out before people start to worry.
I’ll be honest, for about two weeks now I’ve found myself firmly nestled within my own depression. I’m not alone though. Sure I feel more isolated than ever, and yes physically no one has been around, but I’m constantly accompanied by my suicidal thoughts and feeling of worthlessness, so no need to panic! It’s actually gotten far more comfortable down here in the depths of depression. In truth, it’s easier to just stay locked in the confines of my own mind, than to try to venture off into the world of the sane.
Damn, look at me go again. I’m taking far too many words just to say that life is getting complicated again. I think that’s part of my problem. I keep rambling, trying to find the perfect words to make people understand when a simple, “I’m not okay,” would have sufficed.
It’s during complicated times like these that I start wishing life was more like an indie film. I wouldn’t have to worry about finding the right words if it was. I could scream all I wanted, and at the height of my meltdown a manic pixie dream girl would hold my face while giving me a smile that let me know she understood perfectly. We would stand there, faces inches apart, some shitty pop song playing in the background, while a single tear streaks down my face.
As disgustingly cliché as that scene would be I really do wish that life was more like that. For some reason I think it would make choices actually matter. I don’t know why, but nothing seems to matter much anymore. Life seems to dish out consequences with no real sense of consistency. In all my favorite movies there’s some semblance of justice, but reality is full of good people with shitty hands, and bad people who never get caught stacking the deck.
But there I go, falling into the trap of believing that good and bad people really exist. Life’s not so easy that it would allow for such simplicity as good and bad people. No in reality there’s only people who pretend to be good, and people who don’t. These delusions of goodness have started to irk me. Setting aside how fundamentally flawed it is to claim that a person’s existence is good, we all seem to be so inconsistent when we define what good is.
What is a good person? Someone who listens to the trivial woes of the intoxicated because they can’t separate these helpless creature from their past failures? Is it someone who mutilates their own body, pausing only to provide a shoulder to someone just as low as they are? Ya know what, maybe a good person is someone who accepts all the terrible things people do to them, not because they are forgiving or accepting of others flaws, but rather because they don’t have enough self-respect to demand better! Ya, a person like that sound phenomenal.
I hope I wrote that last line sarcastically enough that it will seem redundant when I say that I hate people who are like that. I hate how they trick the world into thinking they are anything more than a waste of space. I hate how they sneak into people’s hearts, and slowly poison their insides. Most of all though, I hate how people don’t hate them, because I can’t bring myself to do anything but.
What do I know though? It’s possible that normal people view life like a Saturday morning cartoon, where bad guys twirl ridiculous mustaches with contempt, and good guys arrive at the last moment to save the day with a flash of light. I can’t tell the difference between the two anymore. No one seems to be standing over my broken corpse, shamelessly taking responsibility for my demise, but I can’t seem to see anyone coming to my rescue either.
I apologize for what this has become. Even I’m annoyed with how rambly this is turning out to be. No one can be too upset though. At the end of the day, what is this but an excuse to complain to countless people so I won’t have to actually talk about my problems. I find myself pouring ink into page after page, and only now do I realize I’m still not saying anything. It’s a bit pathetic to watch my disjointed ideas crash into each other in an attempt to be heard. If anyone finds themselves reading these sorry excuses for ideas in an attempt to escape from something I would advise you to look to someone real. No one can derive real peace from thoughts as toxic as mine.
It’s always so sad when someone tells me they’ve found a connection in something that I’ve written. It’s always further confirmation that we’re all drowning in pain.
God I’m cheerful. In just a few sentences I’ve managed to try to turn away anyone who could offer me support. Guess this just proves I’m too melodramatic for my own good. Things like this are why I still wish I could disappear. I shouldn’t say that should I? To be fair I shouldn’t start having a conversation with myself in the middle of writing. Ah well, what does anyone expect from someone who’s ranting.
Me & a mask 