Sometimes I wonder if Iím about to die, I wonder if I can feel the end as it is coming up close for me. I donít really want to leave the earth yet. But there is always anxiety ruling my body, cornering me against my most desperate fears. Trying to guess over and over when my time will come. Why Iím I still here? Why does time feel so static?
And I think about the things I would miss if I die. The things that would play on my head: The last movie of my unmemorable life. What would I remember?
Its all been so fast but at the time felt so permanent.
Have I really changed at all?
I still feel like the 17 year old ass-bratt I used to be some time before. Still looking to fulfill an undying dream without really putting up much effort into it. Not the necessary enough.
Why am I still sleeping?
Why am I still here?
Is this world for real or is it just a virtual recreation of a ďhigher consciousnessĒ teaching me a cynical lesson?
OrÖ maybe Iím already dead?
I tell myself I just want to create, I want to sing, I want to make art out of noise. But everyday turns harder to wake up. And Iíve become so silent.
I think Iíve lost my sound sometime ago.
I lost my voice.
Got distracted on the unimportant things.
Looking out for my own personal gold medal given by the human gods. Believing I was changing something, I was helping someone. Believing I had a great chance on my professional realm. Believing I could be next best thing.
I lost what really mattered and found nothing in return.
Got told so many times how good I were, not believing it a single one. Iím my own Nemesis. My own destruction. My greatest sabotage.
I left it all for a secondhand aspiration.
I guess the mistake was aiming for perfection, for absolute recognition. Wanting to be empowered by the outside. Wanting to be an eminence.
When did I stop believing in myself?
When did I start this war against me?
When did I become so demanding of me?
When did I eat myself up?
I donít really know what Iím looking for now. I try to tell myself I do.
I just need an escape route. I need to disappear. I need to not care whatís going to happen to me. I tell this to the mirror every day.
I want to be an anarchist. I want to let down all of those I wanted to impress before. I want to fuck society in the ass, just out of despise. Iím like an angry 10 year old who wants to state her liberty through a magnified tantrum. I want to stump my feet over this role in adulthood; I want to spit on the face of effort, patience and success. I want to be the joke, the pity, the deception. I want to be worthless and not give a single fuck. I want to be dead to the world and rotten to the eyes of admiration. I want to be forsaken. I want to be forgotten.
Left to the dark to suit me up.
I want to be lost.
What am I still doing here?
Why am I still rooted here?
Why am I still locked inside this box?
I wonder if Iím about to die. And if I die, would it change a thing?
Is this maybe a permanent loop machine wallowing my ancestral essence once and over again into the same result, the same chain of events, the same meaningless lives, the same dreary emotions?
Theyíve told me I just need to believe, IíVE TOLD ME
I just need to believe.
Why does it feel so definitive when I certainly know its not?
And why do I know all this shit? Why do I know about the power of our neural universe connections? Why do I believe my brain is powerful enough to transform my surrounding space, my fate? Why do I feel I know it if Iíve never been able to make it happen?
OrÖ have I just forgotten?
One of the other things I know is it does not matter. True or not; nothing matters. Iím here for no motive, my existence here doesnít change the tinniest thing, it has absolutely no reason, no deed, no explanation. It evokes to no meaning. Its purpose is vain. Its justification is empty. Its basis is void.
Iím just the biggest pile of nothing
So if Iíd have to guess again, Iíd guess my time for death or my permanence in this life are no different. It should not matter if Iím perished or awake.