Some Kind of Madness.

A main motivator in my continued existence is comfort. That is not a grand purpose, nor is it really anything to get up in the morning for. Which is why I stay in bed when I can.

I comfort myself with what I believe, what I choose to surround myself with in this world. I destroy all of that carefully constructed chosen “reality” by alternately being weak and allowing myself to delve deep into illusion and then deciding to buck up and face the harsh, uncomfortable circumstances I’ve put my body in on Earth. If only it would all fall away.

In general, I feel little kinship with my species. In few, I have seen a spark of similarity, found a shared affection for a movie or song with one or two organisms I’ve encountered. But the bonds I’ve allowed myself to form with these entities are fleeting. They are tenuous and they are weak. I have little faith in such relations as a result. I wish it wasn’t so.

I came here to counter a well thought out, poignant, and praised discourse of another human with my own well written and  never praised work. I wanted to create something beautiful and have my mind be lusted for by my imagined reader. Because, although I keep quiet about this place, as I do with many of my places in the world and in this cyber world that hopes to suck us all in in time, there is something within me that wants to match you, Human. I came here to start to talk to you, as I do here and there and everywhere except for actually to you because I would only prove pathetic and annoying in my efforts there, instead of only pathetic here, hidden. I want to express my sadness and baseless nostalgia. I wanted to be your Alexandria, but missed my chance. Or maybe I was there, and I tried, and you didn’t care for it, or for me. At least not as deeply as I needed. Need. I am not poetic, and I am not charming, and I am not beautiful, and I am not wonderful, and I am not what you want, and I am not your Alexandria. The tears in my eyes will tell you that. The tears making their way down my nose will tell you that I am resisting with my whole soul the fact that this time with you may be only a memory, in my past. The tear rolling down my neck with tell you, “To fuck with Hankuna Matata.” The ones mushed together and flattened on the back of my hand will tell you I’m on the anger stage. And probably will be here for a while. But you don’t care to be told any of that. Not anymore. Maybe not ever, barring pieces of your life spent in brain-addling drug fogs.

So, that is what I came here for and that is what I did not accomplish. Because this is disjointed and weird and not poetic nor poignant nor audience-friendly. It is mind mush put onto digital paper by digital pen and real, sore fingertips. And that’s my life.


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