Not.

Recently there hasn’t been day that goes by that I don’t think of killing myself. A malaise has set in and it found its way deep inside me. Everything has become questionable. My words are not my own. My intention has grown dull, my thoughts scattered. I am finding a knot of irritability writhing inside my chest. The world around me has grown insipid, darker, more neutral. My veneer is less genuine; less polished. I have trouble seeing over the next procession of thoughts. My convictions falter. I stumble over and over again, exasperated, wide eyed, gasping, outstretched for something to grab hold of. Everything has gained an ambient relativity. My yearn for success has slumped into an indifference toward even basic undertakings. What was organized has now decayed; dysphoria chokes the air. Bad air!

Everything that extends from me is strange. I have no desire to indulge in anything. Not even pleasure. Not success. Not failure. Not anything. I have conditioned myself to justify feelings that typically kept me enthralled with the world; kept my passion for life alive. These sentiments have subsided, slowly. The more I fight the disease, the stranger I become; the more alienated I feel. I begin judging myself more harshly, more critically. A slew of self deprecating insults poke and pry at my dormant motivations. The more I judge, the more I judge others. A realness has dissipated and a hollowness has carved its way inside me. Words are not my own; only a predilection of others.

I began to anger. My place in the world seemed to matter not. It matters not.