Thursday, March 17, 2016


there's a lot of pressure on a person for them to do with their lives what others want to happen to it. it takes a lot for someone to allow themselves to encourage others to do what they want to do with their own lives considering it's not a projection of the desires of others; it seems awkward, unfitting. especially, there's a lot of pressure on a person to decide whether or not to live because nobody else ever wants the same as what the person in question wants for themselves. people want to live. it's hard for them to believe others don't, underneath it all, no matter what, want to live. i don't want to live. "selfish people," people sneer, as if walking out of church, as if selfishness- one making a choice entirely focused on their desires- is a moral issue.
personally, i feel this pressure. i feel ready to take charge and say to life i've had enough of my disconnect from it, i am ready to move on and i feel so free- because, plainly, my thinking is too much pain for me to handle, and it's been going on too long; for as long as i can remember. i smile a serene smile from ear to ear thinking about myself declaring "i feel so free because i am finally experiencing freedom-"

but it's not so easy. one doesn't always get what they want in spite of these wants being manifested of one's personal desires. we have so many other choices to consider. aren't we so lucky?

this is my choice, aside from the choice i want (making this an ultimatum): i have to consider the effects my selfish choice would have on my family. i have to picture the future. that's what it boils down to- picturing the future. my choice is not so free for me to act on, as it is not entirely dictated by my own desires. we must consider the desires of others, which we will never get close to, or want to get close to, fathoming. that is pressure. which has more weight- the desires of others or the desires of my own? i think they weigh the same.
"others", i believe, would rather i stagnate in my pharmaceuticals and pain. my guilt over a situation that doesn't exist, one i can only imagine- the aftermath of my death- is what stops me from doing what i want- what possesses me; strangles me.

i only begin caring about it when i picture it. i have to, in order for me to know what my desires are up against. i've thought of hiring a hit-man before, many times, so my family- who i often lose patience with- won't feel so badly about my thinking- though, you know, it was myself that was proactive in doing anything i could to "feel better". everyone knows that my mind- that dangerous appendage- would not have any of it; my disinterest in the world i tried to fight shrugged all my efforts off.

why is it so confusing that committing to a selfish choice does not make me a wretched soul? a selfish choice is simply entirely for ourselves. "it's all about moderation," as it's said. a selfish choice has a lot of force, of course it's going to change others- change them into listening, i like to believe.

i don't always feel listened to.
the idea of gardening, for instance, sends me into a daunting panic every spring and summer for the past few years. it was a hobby i took up to try to be...positive. you'd imagine if everything was fine, and i wasn't just overreacting, that i wasn't just being a big baby, that this wouldn't happen with all my goddamned fucking hobbies. the words of poets i like feel like little, mechanical stabs into my heart. all i can seem to think about is how much better than me they are.
this all probably has to do something with my mind, once an appendage, having been eaten away by the terrorizing it, at some point, opened itself up to, closing itself for good, afterward. the terrorizing remains. it took the place of my mind.

other parts of me are still alive but i am not lying when i say my mind is dead.

i've made my ultimate decision (again). i must play hero, live for the sake of my family, and other human beings- you know, the ones that'd eventually get over my death?- to secure the sacredness of their own minds. i don't want what has happened to me to happen to anyone else- and you know, considering what retards people are about death, anything can happen.
in and out of hospitals it'll continue to be for me, my hideous, uselessly smart, pharmaceutical-resistant, self-admitting mind it will be. the same old routine. not that any of that will work, obviously. my mind has shriveled, the same way other people have to lose their arms or legs because the spread of infections caused by bullet wounds leave it to be. i still feel as if i have a mind. and as it goes, i can't see it, so i'll keep convincing myself it's in there, deep within the recesses of my rotted head, if i can feel it. i can't go crazy. i can't go sane. i'm...a living ghost.

"i'm on a mission here, doctor," i'll say as they nod, fully understanding i'm a hero and that's what all of this is about, "i know this is all perplexing and useless and the more i live the less i want it, but my family needs to feel safe and well they have minds unlike me, after all. i'm fascinating; a medical mystery. i love how impressive i am."