Sometimes I turn my computer on in the morning to make sure the world is still there. It depends. Some mornings it is, and some... Well, I'm still not sure. I'm not sure what it is.
I'm not sure where I am.
I'm not sure what face to put on today, in a vain attempt to hide what seethes beneath my skin, parasitically drawing my energies into the dark void which has consumed my heart and mind.
Sometimes, I feel better than other times.
Every "day"; the sun jolts pathetically into frame as if forced by unseen hands onto some broken down, if not entirely unwilling, overhead projector. And so it happens again, it seems. To run the gauntlet without any concern of the outside. To drop down the same sad, tired pitfalls time and time again, only to find the walls are paper thin, and made of cheap nylon. Easily torn, easily broken. Much like the bonds that tie us, at a distance, to others. Much like we convince ourselves that we are in love. The truth is that love is an inconsistancy in a supposedly consistant world. Nine times out of ten, love is the cause of all problems. The math works out. The math always seems to work out. Eight out of ten people know that.
Whether it be loss of it, lack of it, or problems with it, this is simply one of the undeniable truths that are to be faced in life. This is one. Another is yourself.
Indeed, you will one day realize that you are not all you're cracked up to be. If you already have, consider your self lucky. One less ditch on a road filled with cracks. One less battle to fight and lose. Plenty more of those. So don't worry about it.
In my happiest of dreams, I am missing. Such was not a gradual change, nor a dramatic, exaggerated, Hollywoodized climactic event, but rather an instant change; the fufillment of a wish held by many, and admitted by none.
I have told myself that when I vanish today, I will be missed.
I have told myself I have contributed in some way.
I have told myself that I am in love, and forever thinking of you.
I am great at telling myself things. We all are, it seems, we all are.
This seems like something negative, until you realize that our lies about ourselves are all we can truly ever have, are the only true constant in our lives. Everything dies. Things such as this just take a little longer to live.
Dissappearing from collective existence does not hurt, as would be expected. No more than a broken heart, anyway. No more than watching the hazy golden orange fade into nothing across the frozen expanse , that for all intensive purposes, is the wasteland of your heart, too caked with frost and good intentions for the heat of one last summer to warm it.
One last summer, my love.... Just one last summer.
Some mornings, you have to wake up and carry with you the painful existance of all the yesterdays that you know were never meant to be.
There comes a time when the demons of all those yesterdays catches up with you.
I look out my window, some mornings, to make sure the world is really there.
It never is though.
It just never is.
Signing off,
Ungoliant