"A Deeply Personal Horror"

[decadence]

This is from a blog post I made back in August. It fits with a theme that is going on in my head of late, that real, fully actualized horror is, well, living life...


I like to pretend. I often sit and fantasize about how life could be. Not so much daydreaming, but as actual, self-validating notions of a world less populated by the mundane, the pointless, and the wasteful things that inhabit it.

People disgust me on an instinctual level. You hear talk about all those people who have their genitals swapped in surgery, claiming they are a woman that was born trapped in a man’s physical shell, and vice versa. I can relate, but not on a sexual level.

My level is, I am not happy to be called one of you. You know, one of those beings that steals, lies to gain, rapes, pillages plunders and destroys what he or she does not understand. You know, those beings that talk a lot about making the world a better place but wait for someone just as mentally degraded and totally fucking useless as they claim their enemies are to come along and cure their genetic drop in the bucket. You know, those beings who, for reasons no GOD would be able to fathom, insist on being perpetually ignorant of the very same personal realities for which they complain to be hopelessly trapped in.

It is beyond cliche’. It is beyond words and yet, here you have me, sitting at 3:36 a.m in the morning, another night of decent rest wasted doing stupid and pointless things, seeking the pleasures of audio stimulation and pretending.

I am a great pretender, but reality always sobers me. I have no illusions about where I am going. All those out there who claim to love me as a human being, and those that actually do, will go away. None of it matters like it used to, and by the day, it degrades. The picture grows ever fuzzy.

I go out onto the back porch, between boxing up what little possessions I claim with passion, and light another cigarette. I sit and listen to the trains carrying their cargo off in the night, in the middle distance. I will inhale the silken poison, even though someone of my intelligence and inclination knows it is simply that: silent suicide. Apathy takes a firm grasp on my heart in those times, and I just inhale. I just fucking inhale, because, well, it doesn’t fucking matter. I am 26 years old, and that one fact is the only miracle I can claim I have honestly ever seen.

Time wins in the end. I’ll just keep sitting here, at night, no matter what porch I am on then, and wait to stare down the bullet. I won’t miss these nights.

[Jesus Prime]

Buy DOOM, that'll cheer you up.