My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

We walked down Alameda, sun fading away, a soft orange sky.

Lost in your eyes, lost in you, walking down a cracked sidewalk, not wanting it to end.

Thinking about your kiss, I felt no past. I felt a fleeting now, a futureless future. You’d be gone in the morning

We walked down Alameda, a song in my head and you in my heart.

So, I went to see Angels and Demons and it was really boring, so I must have fallen asleep. I mean, honestly, how many stories do we need about the Catholic Church being secretive, backward-thinking, and often evil?

At any rate, I must have dozed off, because I think I had a crazy dream. I dreamt the movie involves a bomb made out of anti-matter, and this bomb is going to destroy Vatican City. So, to save the Vatican, Ewan McGregor, who’s a priest, grabs the bomb, jumps in a helicopter and flies way up in the sky above Saint Peter’s Square. The bomb, made of anti-matter, detonates high enough above the city only to cause minor damage. Oh, and thank Christ, Ewan parachutes safely away. Then I woke up, and the rest was very predictable.

The end.

“You know, the day I did it, I took two razorblades to the bathtub. You know why? Because I knew that once I started to bleed, I’d get weak. And I didn’t wanna drop one blade and leave myself half done. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine hating your life so much that you’d wanna bring a backup razor?” – Stay

Yes, I can imagine it. I do imagine it. Suicide isn’t necessarily a wish to die, sometimes it’s a desperate way to end terrible anguish. The idea of nothingness seems better than a waking nightmare. It’s hard carrying loss, regret, pain, there comes a point when anything that could lift that weight feels like a good idea.

I suppose I have a really odd perspective on suicide, it’s something I can think about, and can never do. I can totally feel that moment of wanting it, knowing I would do it, and then have the sorrow subside. I can feel it over and over, to no end. I get to think about sharp blades splitting my wrists wide open, the way warm blood would run down my arms, but they’re just thoughts. I get genuine desire without the possibility of action. Vivid material for writing after a passing feeling. It’s sadly beautiful, in a fucked up sort of way. I often worry that I could end up a broken mess, but I’m not there yet. Close, but not quite.

When I was in the hospital for depression, I was in a tiny, electronically locked room. White walls, big shatter-proof windows on either side of the door, a security camera quietly staring down at me. I imagine some nurse saw me singing along with Elliott Smith, or Aimee Mann, posting live updates on Twitter and my blog. The team of doctors came in to ask me some questions, to guage my level of crazy. They asked, “have you ever asked anyone to kill you?” I said, “no, of course not.” I would never ask that of someone, that’s just insane. Suicide, to me, is a very personal choice. It’s a controlled end, your idea. If someone else cut my wrists, it would be terrifying, because at some point it could stop being my choice. What if I changed my mind at the last second? I think the appeal of suicide is the control. Death is scary when it happens to you, when it’s completely out of your hands. Whenever something accidentally goes wrong with my vent, I don’t think to myself, “awesome, I might get to die.” I never want to die by some mechanical malfunction, a hose falling off my vent. If I’m ever really sick in the hospital, I want every measure taken. I’ll fight all the way down. 

I’ve learned that while I have it in me to kill myself, the circumstances will never come about for me to do so, and I don’t want to go any other way. The idea of endless loneliness, constant sadness, is getting to be quite frightening, however.

Writing, lately, is not going well. I’m really not in a good place just now, very scattered, very depressed. موقع البوكر I’ve been trying to post something daily, but I just can’t do it anymore.

I can physically type, but my head’s not in it. So, I’m simply going to write when I feel like it, at least for awhile. I also, eventually, need to do some offline writing, but I can’t write anything as fucked up as I am. العاب قمار روليت I need something I don’t have right now. بلاك جاك

You’re full of darkness and noise, and a thousand pretty pictures, completely vivid, but so far away .

The darkness, the noise, they’re closer than any lover. They’re constant.

Those thousand pretty pictures, those vivid images you can’t touch, they’re just pain. They’re a longing for slit wrists and bullets in your head, but you’re going nowhere.

You’re sitting in the dark, killing time, and going nowhere.

Let me start by saying that I’ve never liked Star Trek in any of its forms. However, I really loved the latest version of Star Trek. I don’t care that none of the science and technology made any sense, I don’t even care that some of the acting was paper thin, it was just flat out fun to watch. I felt like I was watching Star Wars, before Lucas had his breakdown.

Dear Internets,

I’m the dumb fuck who’s been spelling Elliott Smith’s name wrong in all of my blog posts. However, I’ve corrected the issue, and I sincerely apologize. I’m an idiot.

Warm Regards,

Michael

I wish I could sleep until life made sense. Though, if I tried that, I suppose I’d never wake up.

So, recently I finished reading Death: A Life by George Pendle. The book is an autobiography told by Death, the fellow in the black robe who ushers the souls of the dead into the void. Death explains that he is the son of Satan and Sin, born before the Time of Creation. Only Heaven, Hell and nothingness, Earth was still yet to be Created. Much of Death’s childhood is spent with his mother, Sin, as Satan isn’t much of a family man. These are very lonely years for Death, he spends most of the time having sex with his mom, or torturing her for fun. Sin, by the way, is a hideously fat demon with serpents for hair, leaking caustic fluids from every orifice in her body. Needles to say, Death grows up a little odd. He goes on to describe the early, and chaotic first days Creation, the moment he discovers his true purpose in Life, his dealings with God and angels, falling in love with a mortal, his unfortunate addiction to Life, and the fact that he’s really not a bad guy. He’s just doing his job.

Death: A Life is a comedy, a work of satire, and it’s astonishingly boring. God’s kind of a thoughtless bumbler. Satan and Sin are evil, but friendly enough. Jesus is kind of a jerk who tells people, “eat me!” Death is like Santa Claus, he can travel the entire world, completely outside of time, ushering souls into the void. Oh, and everything has a soul, even turnips. Nothing in the book is particularly original, amusing, or compelling. The idea of an imperfect God isn’t new, or interesting in this case. Fiction is supposed to be entertaining, not dull and tedious.

I should write something, but I won’t because I’m ridiculously tired and kind of sore.