I thought the chronic emptiness arose from my loneliness. I thought my loneliness arose from my solitude. But it turns out even when you’re here with me, I am still thoroughly isolated in every way that matters. The boredom stretches through and ahead of me like a bleak and endless winter, where the snow is never quite heavy enough to settle but the chill in the air is reason enough to surrender all plans on behalf of the seductive allure of sleep. Inside, I am at boiling point, bubbling and steaming in the throes of the flames, but I am frozen to the eye and cold to touch. The disparity between how I’m perceived and how I experience myself is astounding and knocks me to my knees each time its ever present head exposes itself from behind the cracked surface of its ancient shell. In this shell a whole home I will carry on my back, motifs scar its every edge, binding me to the association with a past I spend the majority of my time trying to forget. I long to lug it off my shoulder, crawl naked, bare and exposed into the shadows to simply disappear. But this is all I have, all I am, and all I have been. This will always be my home regardless of what I do. Whatever home I intend to make mine will be second to this, the spaces within.
Yet, at the same time as I claim to coil away from my history I make no attempts to escape my thoughts. I do nothing, go nowhere, and see nobody. I sit and I read and I stress and I sleep. I eat and am guilty. I starve and am lethargic. I hold my cat in my arms and he scratches my fingers and I let him and smile as the stinging there lingers. The words that must be out there somewhere to describe how I feel are at the very tip of my tongue, but are blocked by medieval structures old as time, old iron gates and sturdy concrete blocks, tied with heavy rusted chains that reek of bloody permanence and precede, and exceed each one of us. Fragile, hopeless matter. Fragile, hopeless bundles of flesh and bone, designed and intended so clearly to live in one way and consistently stumbling, stepping, and finally leaping and driving and bombing and diving in the opposite direction like a bat out of hell. The senselessness of this society that we have no choice but to call life, the lack of logic and reason despite the multitude of thinkers who have told us this capacity, this feature of humanity is the thing that separates us from the basest of animals… this senselessness in the very thing that is called logical, safe, society, community, the contradiction that it is to simply live in these conditions is what makes the allure of death so attractive. Nothing makes sense, or is predictable. Nothingness makes sense and is predictable.
We are treated just as poorly as the animals they torture and slaughter, their luxurious indulgencies our suffering. Our desires, intentions, feelings and identities perpetually undermined in favour of the only thing that truly matters, a fully functioning and always growing economy. Money. 0’s and 1’s on screens. It means nothing to any of us and yet drives our every decision, every single second of our reality. It determines how we look, what we do, where we live. It determines the allocation of freedom that we have to choose how we want to experience life. It is senseless. We are taught that if we work hard and try our best that we can do what makes us happy. I don’t believe you. I can’t believe you. It’s a lie. I won’t believe you. It’s a lie.