“You’re doing a great job brain,
Driving the meat-suit…
Just killing it.”



Part 3.
I woke up...
What the **** am I doing?
That’s a bigger question than I want to face at 4 am in the dark with an urge to **** and a limp that makes getting out of bed a decision based on pros and cons:

            Pro                                 Con
I won’t **** the bed.       I have to walk.

Stairs in the dark are my nemesis.

I get up, turn on the light so I don’t stumble and fall traversing the disaster of personal space I occupy.
Middle class squalor.
Druggies live like this.
I am a druggie, so it’s fine, or so it seems.
Back to the big question- What the **** am I doing?
Nothing. Taking a ****.
I just have to get ok with the fact that I’m not going to leave anything behind. No great, unsung opera, or hidden magnum opus; no postmortem, unpolished, unpublished manifesto to find. Just sadness released and gifted to whoever should find me lying lifeless (unless it’s just something there looking for something to eat.)
(Pt4)I limp
Down the stairs one step at a time.
Bad foot down, good foot follows.
Can’t trust my fat *** to the broken ankle, but now the other legs getting a bad knee.
I’m ******* falling apart.

(Pt3cont)
It’s too **** difficult.
I just want to quit.
You’re not gonna **** yourself.
You’re too **** chicken ****.
You can’t do that to your mother, your father. You don’t give a **** about your siblings enough to care, but mom and dad are here and they don’t deserve that despair.
Sure would be nice if something else would do it. Like an act of god or a terrorist or drunk driver (but not you).
Your friend got away just a few weeks ago
and it was messy, but now it’s over for her.
Shut up dude.
Is that what you wanna do?
You’re gonna **** yourself?
Then do it... what the **** are you waiting for? The right time? You ******* *******.
What; are ******* scared?
Scared you might go to hell?
Or that you’re right and it’s just this one blip; and you, you lucky little ****, you only get the one shot, and it’s a blink of an eye and you’re gone; and you’re gon’ turn off the light and and never turn it back on?
Go ******* talk to a friend.
This is just the addiction again.
It goes away. (It comes back)

I don’t want to **** myself;
I’m scared I’m gonna **** myself;
Not immediately,
not imminently,
I’m just afraid I’ll lose the battle
One day
Not tomorrow,
certainly not today
But what if one of these days I can’t come up with a reason to suffer through.
Cause it’s getting harder to do.

(He sobs and screams and tells it to go but he knows it’s just sinking back into the shadows in the corner of the room)


Part 1

The part of my brain which I’m constantly fighting does not speak in language,
it knows only “do”
It does not even know “do not”

“Not” Serves no purpose
There is only do.
The lizard Brain licks its own eye as it waits for the next command.
It does not tell itself "wait,"
it just delays the pounce,
it eats bugs and does drugs
and serves only one purpose,
-Feed-
It’s not even in charge of “****.”
That takes to much cognition
How
Am I supposed to fight hunger?
How
do you turn off the need?
How
Do you tell a dragon you won’t chase it

How do you get a fiend to be free?


Part 2. I woke up at 3:54 in the morning to ask myself what the **** I’m even doing, to which I had no reply, and the dark thoughts that creep in in dark moments alone came creeping across shadows with there fingers long and scratched at the walls and wept and moaned…

It’s too **** difficult
to close the door
but the critters keep crawling in and making the interred corners there home.
Nasty little buggers,
disease ridden pests,
eating up everything,
automatons driven by “feed and fertilize”

But you can’t blame survivors for surviving
it’s all they know.
That is until they get squashed by a boot

Nobody likes bugs crawlin on their skin.
It makes you twitch and kick and scratch and freak out. A man will slap himself to **** a creepy-crawler crawling on him, he'd slap a friend without warning to **** a bug that lands on him. But the bug I’m trying to squash is the cockroach of the mind. And it’s the most cunning little ****** I’ve ever tried to slap. You ever chased a cockroach through a kitchen? - just slamming **** on the counters out of the way trying to chase it into a corner where it can’t hide from the light. You ever had one get away and so you gotta go searching through cabinets and moving boxes of cake mix and bags a of rice and packets of seasoning and other detritus until you finally discover it’s disgusting den and you see the signs of life… (mostly, that means bug **** everywhere). But the roach is rarely there, they don’t go home at night. They get out there and get to work, trying to get high.
It’s either that or home hungry, having a cry. That’s what I’m doing…

This ******* guy…

My dog is dreaming I can tell by her muffled barks and how she kicks. I wonder what she’s chasing? And where?  Is it the memeries of her ancestors hunting in packs she sees? Or is it great chases from her own past she relives. That one time she caught a bunny? Or stalking the neighbors cat, pouncing and chasing into a corner and catching and killing? Does she ever catch a squirrel in her dreams? She’s never caught one in the daytime, eyes open, on her feet. Can she imagine what it feels like? Extrapolate things? What purpose does a dream serve a dog? Or is it something they adopt from their masters; Like anxiety? Do dreams come with the imprint of human interaction or are they innate to brains? I need to go back to sleep.

(Pt4cont) He resets his alarm
A little later than before but he wants some time to dream, dream of a life where he’s not just some ******* druggie living in an attic at his parents home at 40 with no job and no life and no kids and no wife and very little will to live and even less left to give. Sweet dreams sweet Prince, you’re my favorite one, don’t tell the others, they’ll revolt and who knows what they’ll do to us when we aren’t looking.

Here comes the sun

(The screen just auto-switched from night mode to white mode. I’ve gotta go back to sleep, thanks for playing, it’s been fun. Fuuuuuck me…)

:Existential Crisis over (for now):

May 17 2024 3:54am-6:49am

Sometimes they yell,

"WORTHLESS!"

And I listen,
Because

"Listening is the polite thing to do."

Alone, cold,
Misunderstood.
Fighting a battle that began before our conception.
Cursed. The physical manifestation of ones fathers mistake.
Emotions removed, confiscated. No longer relevant.
Useless.
Sympathy lost when love failed us.
Patience is the only retribution.
The endangered struggling black father.
On the verge of self destruction.
Restricted from the love of his own life force.
With no direction. No support.
Intense emotions personified by a series of precise phrases representing static progress and consistent negligence.
Our efforts are never enough.
Our words mean nothing.
Our concerns, suppressed.
Our worries, neglected.
Our respect, vaporized.
Our life. Devalued.
The endangered species

The struggling black father...

I think about dying
At least once a day
It's gotten to the point
Where I crave death:
To the point where suicide
Doesn't seem so bad and selfish and cruel
But more like a solution to all my problems

Of course, I'd rather die
From natural causes
But the progression is way too slow
So, I'm trying to speed it up a little
By destroying my body in the best possible ways:

-Junk food
-Laziness
-And bad ******* hygiene