Pain in Me Gutty Works

What am I doing and why do I never seem to know? There must exist within all these problems, some sort of solution, right? I mean there has to be because I want there to be and need there be any other reason?

I can’t seem to come up with more words. It kills me. I feel no rush or any type of thrill. I just struggle to get whatever is wasting my mind into anything other than this grey form that exists inside of my thoughts. I don’t know what it is or why it’s there, I wish I did. I wish I knew what went wrong to make this how it is, if there even is anything. It was probably nothing. In fact, I’m almost sure it’s nothing. Just some sort of, I don’t know, defense mechanism or some shit like that? Anyway, it’s just a condition that comes with the way I think of humanity.

But then again, there can be no such things made out of nothing. Something has to come from something; it doesn’t just come from nothing. But what is it then? What is it that yanks and tears at me every morning when I wake up at fucking noon and try and drag myself out of bed and attempt to say “hi” to everyone and play all the games that everyone else likes to play so much? And if I say, hey today I’m going to do something for myself, I don’t. I don’t help others and I don’t help myself. I talk all of this talk about being smart and hip and act like I am some sort of cool person that just does what he wants and yet hardly step up.

And hell, even that’s not true! Nothing is true! The truth is nothing!

I am nothing. I am true. I am something. I am lying. I lie to you because all I want to do is fulfill the madness that crept into my head as a boy because I got all sad and shit in 4th grade when the girl I liked, liked some other dude in my class. Drove me fucking nuts, at like nine years old and over ten years later, I have not changed. Well, maybe I have, but I still perform the same routine. Kind of. Well, I think it’s the same. It’s hard to tell. It’s hard to tell for certain what is or has happened in any moment besides this one now, and yet I love to sit and dwell on the past that I remember to be so wonderful. I suppose it was, but now it isn’t. Not that it stopped being wonderful, just that it stopped being, those moments I mean. Even though, I suppose they still are, I just can’t see them save when I close my eyes or dream.

And my dreams are no use. They just show me things that make me feel and to feel anything at all is rather burdensome. I’d rather just not feel. It would have to be from the beginning though; I couldn’t handle just not feeling anything from this point forward because I’ve honestly been spoiled up to this point with all this emotion. No, it would have to be from day one; from birth I could never shed a single tear. Ever, not even if I heard the most beautiful music far beyond the beauty that ears can understand.

I wonder if I write the word rubbish, you’ll read this as though I have an English accent. That would be cool. I wonder if anyone will ever read this. I guess there will be a few, but it always remains for the most part a mystery who reads any of this stuff. I wonder why I feel so compelled to do this and why I believe that this is my path. I wonder about everything all at once because that’s what I like to do. I honestly don’t like getting hung up on nonsense yet I spend most of my time doing so. And then moments like this come where I start with no words and then, as if out of nowhere, they begin to pour from my mind, to my hands and on to this machinery of the devil called the computer.

Praise Satan kids. I think I’m still afraid of the dark a little bit. I wonder what Freud would have to say about that. He would probably just do some blow off of a hooker’s ass and blame everything on the little man that lives inside of me and tells me to do bad things. Fucking pill pushers.

If this be destiny, then why do I quiver at the thought of it? Why does the fear in my heart grow when I become faced with the possibility of living a life that I want to live? Failure and the fear of that I suppose, which works perfectly into the whole ass backwards scheme I have for life. I kinda want to get drunk soon. I’d like to get my hands on a bottle of Jameson and just stay up one night writing stories and songs and other rants of bullshit and wake up and maybe burn it all in a funeral pyre. If you understand me, me brother. I’m rather sick of all this pain in me gutty works and all the weariness in my mind. So I’ll try my damndest to rectify the situation.

The consequences of having nothing else to do. I might as well see if I have any actual demons that need to be stared down or if it’s all bullshit so good and high quality, that even I couldn’t see past my own terrible little creation. Either way, this is what I’ve said and if no one ever looks upon these words, then I suppose I am nothing. But at least it would be true.


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