lowko

Given something, wanted more, had to leave it all
any time can be the right time for you
between us
ready for you
I can't think right now, it makes me remember
every time we met, it made it worse
longer days meant longer nights
last time I saw you was probably the last time
as if you knew, but I did

If you knew what I would do, if you knew what I've done before, it would change everything too much.  This needed to be natural, real, unbiased.  It hurts so much to let it happen, but nothing lasts forever.

I sincerely hope there are those among us who are not pretending to be alive.  That there's a reason we sacrifice.  Lives for which we give, struggle, and bleed.

Home.  Laying in bed.  Feeling physically broken.  Eight days in a row, well over half of each day.  I feel destruction.  I sleep for a day and then some, I struggle to move from this crypt.  Awake now, breathing again, I ready myself and count the hours until it begins again.

Feeling that I wouldn't know what to do if I ruled the world.  Already I eat, fuck, and sleep.  I wander about and experience this gallery of existence.  Food that saturates my palate with flavors it takes more than minutes to consume, girls with skin burning like fire and bodies soaked with lust, these moments to be lost in time--experienced by few and remembered, eventually, by none.

Back at home, tearing my flesh apart with weight so that it grows back stronger.  Rowing an invisible boat through a pretend ocean.  Pulling myself up a cliff that doesn't exist.

A life of fantasies fulfilled.  This can't be all there is, right?  It's almost time to work again.  But there is no saving here, only delays.  We put it off and hope you feel better in the until then.  It feels empty until I see those together.  I wonder how they each feel.  I suspect it's mostly projection.

I really hope someone isn't pretending, somewhere.

I love this place, this page.  The least filtered output of my existence.  The low odds that anyone ever reads any of it, yet still the possibility, allowing me to feel as if I am getting something out--even if it's still all a big cheat, as no one knows me.  Well, one does, but they'll likely let me fade.

I really had hoped life would feel different after accomplishment, yet here I am in the same position so many others have found themselves in through the millennia.

I wonder how many have truly accepted death.  I saw the world torn down around a husband and very young dying wife last week, they didn't know at the time it was the last few minutes she'd ever be awake in this life.  I was the last person she talked to.  We spoke about ... boring things.  Nonsensical explanations of what could be happening and what was going to be done.  Then in a moment, just gone.  She had asked me in her tired voice where her family was and if she'd be able to see them again soon.  I've thought through everything a few hundred times now to find any error, but nothing.  Everything was done correct.  With urgency.  With accuracy.  An almost flawless execution considering the circumstances, and yet she lies between a 97 and 100 percent mortality.  If she is in the chosen few who survive, most have debilitating handicaps.  I remember walking out of the room.  The husband was kneeling, shaking, perhaps dying himself.  A state of emotional shock, at least.  As I got to the door, beside him, I placed my hand on his shoulder and looked down at him.  I spoke with the most heartfelt meaning I could muster and then saw myself out--an end of a night.

"Good luck"

I see it every day and yet I still feel as if I fall short of acceptance.  As if I am pretending to accept it, that perhaps I could cheat it somehow.  Pretentious, isn't it?  That I may be the only person in all of existence to escape inevitability.

I ... I don't even know what to write, to say.  I've started this a thousand times.  Weeks spent choked up on symbols that only I will ever see, meanings and feelings that I endlessly fail to convey.

My sadness is not specific.  I enjoy being alive, but I hate life.  It's so endlessly cruel.  If evil was a thing, life would be it.  Torturous and sadistic.  I've seen the broad strokes, now I suffer finishing touches.  It's even more painful to get to know people, their families, and then watch them die.

The worst part is not being exempt.  Their death, it's you, it's me, it's everyone you love.  Someday, somewhere, somehow.  All that you and I and they ever were, blown away like whispers in the wind.  And that's just for the fortunate, those who had the chance to be or have anything at all.

I dug myself out of the ground, out of a grave, for this.  I breathed dirt and wore my hands down to blood and bone.  I fought and killed, overcame.  Yet it stays with me, my darkness.  Always there.

Tomorrow is another day.  Keep breathing.