There was never any way out.
And forever seemed like another thousand steps.
Forward.

Then.
When the impossible happened.
When I found a home.
Nothing got better.
Even though it did.

The same old fried brain.
The same constant depression.
Only.
I'm fat.
I'm boring.
I'm weak.

Only.
Life on the streets might.
Have been better.
For me.

I don't feel anything anymore.
Except.
Depression.
Except melancholic self reflection.

I used to care about something.
Now I just can't find the words.

And, I'm living in torpor.
Sleeping while awake.
A somnolent consciousness.

Existing.
Not living.

It seems.
Nothing was.
Really.
Worth it.
All along.

I'm still alone.
Still escaping from reality.
Still ******.
Still sad.

Nothing really got better.

Just isolated.

Just jaded.

Just fatalistic.

All those hopes.
All those dreams.
Every could have been.
Nothing.
But.
Fantasy

Everything I own is broken.
And irreparable.

I smell of.
Mouldy.
Ash trays.

Failure and lowly things.
Filth.
Decay.

Let's forget we were ever.
Alive.

And.
Ignore.

Everything.

I used to say I found.
My joy.
In the Kali Yuga.

But.
I really found.

A quiet.

Dead,
place.

Where endurance.
Is all that.
Matters.

And amid the tumult.
Of my life.
I find nothing other than the despair.
That this will always be it.

This.

Sinking feeling in my gut.

Falling apart.
All over.
Again.

Measured and metered.

Everything nice.
Beauty and spice.

We're all just some drone.

Out there in this magnificent future they wrote about.

In magazines.

In story books.

In the infinite imagination of the next slug to crawl out of the mud and screams at the lack.
Of meaning.
In this.
Life.

No.
I don't want to believe in a better tomorrow.

I can't.

I've lost all the eloquence.
I had when I was young.
And now I express myself.
In grunts and moans.
And ugly things.

And it's far too late for teenage angst.

So
Why do I still feel this way.
So unconnected and discombobulated.
Fumbling through my words.

It's a.
Cold hard.
World out there.
Kiddies.

Stay safe won't you.
Stay sane must you.
Stay normal lest you stand out.

And become.
Destroyed.

Oh kiddies.
I know.

For I'm as cold as frozen nitrogen.
Hard as an isolated diamond.

Looking for my rough.

And it's always a sob story they're singing.
Always a love song they're writing.

And there's no better torch song than an epitath.

Gone.
Too.
Soon

This stability of mine.
Is depressing
The doldrums of routine.
They keep me unfilled.

And,
oh I long.
For adventure that ends in ruin.

And,
oh I long.
For Dionysian ecstasy.

But.
That all lead to squander and squalor.
To trauma and decay.
That all lead to death.
Minutes away from the reaper.

So.
I keep at the Apollonian ordering of chaos and revel in the boredom of banal.
And I'm less inspired.

But well dressed.
But well fed.
But always high.

Maybe just maybe at the end of the dredgery I'll feel fullfilled.
Like all of this mattered.

But I'm a husk of an interesting person.
And the tumult of chaos and drifting.

Giving up.

Still natters at my mind.
Like my unfinished books.
Like my drug induced amnesia.

It all gets forgotten in my mundane days.
My necessity.

Depressed.

I'm always depressed and punishing myself for not being well adjusted.
And, I'm always hungry and overthinking.

This oh so familiar ennui.
My isolation.
My grand delusions.
Are really just the most effective time waster I know.

This is all just some strange daze.
Some kinda washed out broken device I can't fix.

My misanthropy has made me give up as all I long for.

Is.
Sweet.
Release.

How do I make this feel better.
How do I **** the memories.
That once I was a beautiful could have been.
But now.
I just whittle away the hours.
Enter anguish when there's no more ****
No more alcohol or hours of video games.
Just to.
Waste my
Time.

Here sitting in my self abnegation.
In my sacred antipathy

I am filled with irrational fear.
And a deep hatred.
Of myself.

Everything crashes.
And I run.
Away
From here.

Into an impossible panic.
Heart dropping.
Knuckle white.
Terror.

I'm tired of living

My mind is filled with a frenzied frustration when I take the time to.
Think.
About.
Anything.
More.
Than wasting my time with overt over stimulation, just occupying time with this.
Distraction.
This.
Meandering.
Nothing.
That does nothing but fill me up with dread that I've wasted everything trying to get high.
Just.
Silencing.
That.
Voice.
Inside my head that repeats a neurotic mantra of give up, give in, give a ****.
Anything.
To.
****.
Silence

She doesn't talk to me anymore.
No bated breath.
No smiles.
No glance.
No long conversations til dusk.

Just her absence.
I don't think she was ever there to begin with.
All I was was an afterthought.
Meandering distraction.

Cast off husks don't break any hearts.  
They rot.
Alone.

She loved me then.
When I was a potential.
A small seed in the mind's eye.
A possibility.

Yet I let her down.
I turned the greener grass a deeper shade of brown and wilted on a tree.

I'm now regret.
Frustration.
And nagging melancholy.
Twitching in the nightmare.

These self reflections draw me open.

And my guts laid bare.
My life.
My intuition and my memory.

All fall apart and I'm left barren.
Gazing at nothing.
Coiled frustration.
Despair.
Inadequate.

I'm a waste of food.
A waste of time.
A wasted life.

Starting over is another chore.
Another necessity.
One more thing remained unaccomplished.
One more arbitrary rule.

Maybe I should just sleep.
Sleep and recede into the somnolence.
Fade off into nothing.
Of note.

And never was.
Something.
Just.
Loss

It's that potent despair.
Standing over a dead life.
Gone before the miracle appeared.
And mundane.
Some realization I'm not quite where I want to be.
Or as high as I'd like.
But tomorrow is a curse cast from my yesterdays.
Today is a wallowing disgust.
And, my past, an abomination.
Why am I alive.
Just to struggle through the hard bits and reward myself with sloth. I spend a lot of days staring at nothing.
Hours.  Just.  Passing by.

It really wasn't supposed to be like this.
This banal.
This mundane.

I was supposed to be some kinda.
Something.
By now.

The torpor is aftertaste.
The depression.
Par for the course.