The Special

Well, here I am again. In this strange place. Contemplating a strange action. Insane, one might say, insanophilic, the desire to go there, the place of insanity and self administered retina scars like black rainbows. If it's so special, why's it not on the menu? That cobalt blue verbiage.

Nobody knows you and nobody wants to. Contemplate that, completely, sink to the bottom of the mudhole, get every mol in you, and feel the deep reality of no one wanting to know you. That takes care of the bullshit but doesn't leave much.

It's returning, I'm reverting. Losing cool, drowning in paranoia and self-abnegation, fearing and affirming the worst about me, choking on the old useless paradigm that's just next door to murder, suicide, apocalypse, personal political, singularity of anxiety. There's an urgency building up slow and sly, a force behind the lines, critical mass'll hit some time, compress time, rough squeeze through raspy organ tubes.

Can't deny the need for void to be filled, take it seriously, I'm not careful what I wish for, fuck that. Fixing worked last time, for long enough, I'll take anything, the vacuum is so cold and sucking out everything. More reason to hope for a miracle, reasons to deconstruct it as a 'miracle', reasons for I shall be released any day now, cause of something she told to someone. It's not all sarcastic, the miracle doesn't require a miracle, when it happens it becomes the new paradigm, thanks God but I found a parking space, nevermind, don't need you.

Heat death coming for those trapped in linear time. But I'm not being stalked. When I'm not cool, I'm burning alive with nerves and adrenaline, I don't like adrenaline, I don't get off on it, I'm not being stalked by saber toothed tigers, I don't need that stuff pumping in tight headache pulses at a tempo I can never catch up with, to work with. Losing my cool, confidence, identity... uncomfortable in the skin even though I'm sober (for all intents and purposes) and taking better care of myself.

Not teachable. Not able to be a fan, of anything anymore. Wanting to be my own greatest fan, but failing at that. Sure, I can say that, why not?

Be like the boy. We like Roy. Whichever. Why do we care? Why write about apathy? Why expect anyone else to care about writing about apathy? Because it's not really apathy, far from it, apathy is a misleading sugar coat euphemism for caring so much it strangles me. Not so much you. But it's really true, it's not empty, or at least it doesn't have to be. Just seems eternal and infinite when I'm in it.

The thing I have no euphamism for returning, because I'm losing my cool. Feeling not worthy of anything. Gotta find the cool again, but can't through chemical crutches, and I don't even want to. Don't worry. I'm so upstanding I worry about you worrying. But the squeaky wheel gets the cock greased. I should ask for donations, fund my dickstarter. Hah. Ha. Yeah.

There's purple prose that isn't very visual, it's just like a bruise, a good old-fashioned bruise from when injuries were from having fun, as a kid, not from daily meatgrinders, online mindtinders. Any day now, I shall release. Inside. Within. Not without. So horrible to say this. Actually it would be fine to sing it, and I could give it an intonation and rhythm that would make it sayable, with style even, clothe in mesh-layers of sarcasms like kevlar, but writing, oh god, no prose is purple enough to obscure the bare words and their implications.