I found the rage, alone in the middle of the night. Balancing on the crumbling rim of sleep, I wobbled and leant on thoughts from spent days. The fan strummed my leg hairs and the heat didn’t respond. I proved like dough under a dampening duvet and my thoughts grew to double their size. Their conflicting scripts cancelled into thick droning noise, and I knew it meant that really I was empty inside. It was a single ply of psychic wallpaper pasted cheaply over giant holes in my structure. I gave hours to impulses. Impulses give nothing back. The hollow should be allowed to sleep.
And then, a back-bench nerve tingles from an undisclosed location. The audacity. Yet, I am without surprise. youcouldfeelbetter. And this is why I don’t. youwillnotfeelbetterwithoutsleepyoucouldgetyourselfsomeeasysleep. I know in myself that the ease is the emptiness. thiswillfeelgoodandyouneedtofeelgood. I will feel worse when I’m done, but I do feel lousy already. feelingbetterisnothardyoucanmakeyourselfbetterwheneveryouneed. I wish I felt something at all, I’m so empty. youdonothavetoremainunsatisfiedyouarechoosingtoanditishurting. I just want to feel something, maybe…
This is the trap, and the part that really shreds my dignity on every entrance is that I recognise this ditch. From each of my desperate flails in. From each injured crawl back out. Selling energy and respect for cheap, impurely cut slabs of dopamine. It might as well be laughing gas, it’s so funny, dissipates so quickly, and is really more anaesthetic than anything else. As its warm tide washes back it carries off your own warmth with it.
Quit Vision 