The words I write slip away within the hour.
The words I find are unfamiliar, and quickly become irrelevant.
The incessant subtle awareness of my own inferiority is manifesting in violent, self-destructive outbursts that get worse as years pass and gaps widen.
I am constantly trying to maintain a persistent level of satisfaction with my performance, but it always comes up short.
I am constantly on edge as a result, and the slightest provocation will bring me to violence. The sidewalk is mine, and those who get in my way are disrespecting me existentially. They instantly become the targets of my utmost hatred.
I have no idea how men and women work because all I know is work. My formative years were spent in virtual worlds. The intense dramas of interpersonal relationships exist in my reality exclusively as artistic mediations on other people’s lives. I have only ever had fleeting moments of true personal connection, and I am incomplete and repulsive for this.
Where is the time going? If it’s passing so quickly and effortlessly surely it must be worthless, but if it’s worthless none of this is a tragedy. But if none of this is a tragedy why do I feel like shit all the time?
I lay naked on my bed with my arm wrapped around my face and head. In moments like this I’m relentlessly dramatic to make up for the utter lack of drama that characterizes the vast majority of my life.
I was told throughout my childhood to stop being dramatic, and at some point I must have listened. I take my life just seriously enough to feel bad about it, but not seriously enough to do anything about it.
My mind is attacking itself. My life and all my achievements are infinitely small, infinitely useless and infinitely worthless. And what’s worse, I am creatively uninteresting. The energies that come from my body are utterly unappealing.
Exciting energy is the saving grace of even the most heinous criminals and monsters. Their lives are motivated by a zeal that manifests in fascinating bursts of violence. Their lack of concern for cosmic or governmental law is fascinating. Their lives are appeals to the imagination, are art, whereas mine is a series of defeated masturbations that are visually unappealing and uninteresting to the unfortunate observer.
My intense zeal is directed inward in a useless feedback loop that is completely unproductive. The zeal that manages to escape this loop is barely perceptible, which explains my absolute lack, my absolute inferiority. My zeal is supremely unproductive, embarrassingly unproductive. My non-productivity is actually impressive––the most valuable and productive part of my existence is the awe in others at the unimpressiveness of my existence.
If I wasn’t laying down I would bow.
Now get out of my room, I’m not wearing any clothes.
Actually, wait, do you want a cup of coffee?