My blood is coursing through
My body with suicidal depression.
I don't want to see the unravelling of the rope of
Being correct.
Or wallow in the satisfaction
That I got it right the whole time.

Redemption isn't satisfying.
Neither is being right.
I am not a phoenix rising out of ashes.
I'm an aghori, drunkenly asleep
In the funeral ash of a widow fire.

I want to dissolve in
My boredom
And be made to have no history.

God, wipe me from existence.

I want to be abnegated
Not vindicated.
Nor validated for anything I do.

I don't publicise my morality.
I don't look for congratulations
For things most people should recognize as good.

I cannot adjust to the perpetual minor inconveniences of reality.
Even though I resolved not to die
By my hand.

I still feel the same.

Alive because I am not allowed to die yet.
Condemned to eternal boredom.
Unable to sleep.

I wish God would have asked me whether
I wanted to hear his voice.
I prayed for annihilation and dissolving into death.
Not some mission reflected in the actions
And words
Of other people.

Nolan writ large with his own enormous opinions,
My disproportionate influence
Encoded in the words of other people
Eerily exactly, what I elucidate.

God, stop thinking that if I see
The effect I had on other people
I'd be ok with being and time.

I'm not.
Ok.
With existing.

I want to disappear and live in the utopia
Of never have begun
And nothing will change my mind.

Such a waste of time.

Being anointed.
Being a prophet.
Being alive.

Being in general.