I don’t know what it is that can make a man so angry. You know that feeling you get, you just black out, you don’t know what you’re doing. You’re running on nothing but instinct. You just stream it, consciousness. You drop words to the page in the blackness. You don’t know what you’re talking about you just talk. It’s like a majestic dance. There is a purity to it. Cooped up in your stuffy, fag stinking room wishing you were anywhere, and anyone else in the world. The shaking is the worst. Having no control over your own body. It’s just there, it’s also running on instinct. You can’t keep it under wraps you just shiver. You’re not cold, well, not physically. In your heart and soul you’re veritably fucking sub-zero. Take it with a pinch of salt. Except you can’t these days because salt will cause you to have a stroke and a heart attack. It’s bullshit. Where is the life? There is none anymore. Automaton wander around brainless; the uniformed, briefcased masses pirouette around the streets, in the rat race. Working for the cash you need to inject directly into your veins as a fix. It’s all that matters. Cash doesn’t define self-worth for me. As Kanye West said, “having money’s not everything, not having it is”. I grew up with nothing, I’ve lived with nothing. I like nothing. I would shout that from the rooftop. I would parade around the streets naked wearing a sandwich board declaring my hate for cash. I just want respect, appreciation, worth in the spiritual sense. For people to see me, to know me, to like me, to like what I do. I want people to read the words I lay on pages and find themselves reading their own souls. Problem is they never will. My words are vitriol. Pure spleen vented from a soul so confused and troubled that it seems almost a contrived cliché. The true tragedy is it’s not a cliché. It’s true. I am confused. I am troubled. I am so troubled I like to cut my arms. To rend the flesh apart and see the spilling of blood from my own veins. There is something about it that is so therapeutic. It certainly keeps you from killing yourself. The rush as you feel the pain, all those chemicals that your brain releases to give you a buzz and help stop you knowing the wound is there, but you know it is there. You feel it, you feel the tingle as your skin splits, you feel the tickle as a crimson trickle meanders down your limb like lipstick from a filthy love affair on your fleshy collar. Naught is so fragile as flesh and yet, you can also witness, over days, as your body puts itself back together again. Imagine if you watched as a shattered crystal vase moulded itself back to form over a period of time. Time lapse footage of that would be amazing. That’s just how it feels to hurt yourself and see the repair. It’s like magic, but over time. It’s David Blaine shit for the patient and desperate. Of course, it’s also easy to damage yourself when you hate yourself. I don’t hate the skin I’m living in, I just take it out on it. I hate me. I hate the fact that I have achieved nothing. I hate the idea that I will never achieve anything and I hate the constant advice that ‘I’m still young’ and ‘I’ve still got time’. Time is relative and at the moment I don’t feel I have any left in the world. I feel at the very end of time, dangling on the edge of blackness about to witness true oblivion and see my body get sucked into the oblivion singularity where it can go and join my twisted hopes and dreams that went there oh so long ago. When you feel as I do you are not corporeal. You are not a body or a being of existence, you are a transient being. You are between dimensions, stuck in a some monochromatic world. Everything is seen as negative because, in this world, everything is negative. You could win the lottery and end up blowing your brains out because you’d only have to worry about what to do with the fucking money. Although, as I have said, I’m not particularly fussed about money, that was merely an audience relatable allegory. I don’t feel like there is any escape. I don’t know why, since I look at my door all the time. I know how a prisoner must feel. The paths are all closed for me and, even when I feel good, even when back on my feet I fear that something with contrive to happen that just sends me right back to this place; as always seems to happen, as always has happened. It may seem too unbelievable that anyone could be that unlucky, but I think I am that unlucky. I can’t help but feel everything besides my gender has been wrong. I feel like a stranger in my own family, I felt left out as a child, I felt singled out as an adolescent and I feel abandoned and forgotten as an adult. I feel like lady luck just has no regard for me. I wish I could fight it. I wish I could hold up flaming sword and stoic shield and batter back all these worries, troubles, regrets, bad luck, lost youth, loneliness, isolation. Unfortunately, I can’t. My body has given up on me. I am chemically deficient to deal with it. I’ve been abused by life. People keep asking me if anything has happened to cause me to feel the way I do. They imply I’ve had some huge, traumatic life event. No. My life has been the huge traumatic event. I grew up with an insatiable ability to just soak up negativity and hold it. I remember it. I remember lots of things that hurt me inside. I remember lots of events that cut my soul like I cut my arms. The problem is that between these events I don’t remember much happiness in between to balance it out. I feel like a demonstration that karma is bullshit. I feel mistreated by circumstance. I have been raped by chance. That’s traumatic. That’s traumatic for anyone. I would take any physical affliction over this. I would give all my supposed intelligence, trade it all in for ignorance if it meant I could have a smile on my face in anything other than irony. Smiling literally makes my face hurt. It makes my heart skip a beat. But my face hurt. I feel lost. I’m in a forest, dark, dank, hot, humid. All around me are blazing pairs of eyes, gazing. Their gazes uninterrupted by the falling cold rain and I am the focal point for them. I am the prey and the eyes belong to shit things that could happen. They’re all staring at me, waiting for me to make my move before they make theirs. Just as I take a step they pounce on me, tearing me limb from limb. Chewing at my being until I can’t scream anymore. I can only slump back, lay down, cry, and give up. It’s not what I want to do. But I’m too weak to do anything else. I’m no genius. I’m not clever. I’m not special. I’m not unique. I’m just like every other depressive waster in this world. I’m lazy, I’m shit at everything, I’m inattentive, I apply myself poorly, I give up too easily and I place blame on other people or fate. Welcome to the real world. You’re responsible for you own actions. You made this happen. You are shit. You could be doing something. You could be working. You could just bite the bullet, stop thinking you’re destined for greater things and take that dead end life you know you’re going to have. Why torture yourself into thinking you ever deserved otherwise? You aren’t significant. You don’t have anything important to say. You aren’t going to do anything with your life but work and die. Welcome to reality. Welcome to disappointment. Welcome to hell. Time to dance with the devil.
Anxiety and Depression Fueled Stream of Consciousness