The time will pass.
I'm writing this to kill time.
There's nothing to say that matters, not even I'm alive, do you hear?
Partly because there is no you.
Nobody I want to be writing to anyway.
Unless it's drugs. Dear heroin. Dear amphetamine.
But that's a letter so short it's illegible.

It's a bad way of thinking,
When the drugs aren't here,
If the drugs can't be made to be here soon,
If the boredom time stacks higher than the comfort times,
Which they don't.

What's the point of foresight if the world doesn't bother with it?
What's the point of remembering, which means truth, if nobody's paying attention?
I think there's a reason for the drugs and the disappointment.
It's an exercise in pathetic egomania,
Like any form of self-harm:
It's not about the outcome.
It's about the process.

It's easier to achieve nothing than patiently build something that require faith or hope;
Of which I have neither.
How can anyone sane have faith?
How can anyone with a memory and an imagination have hope;
For themselves?

We are all of us a deadly accident,
On the way to a collision.
Might not be exactly the same fatal injury.
Cause of death may be written up with a different sentence.
But it's all the same chain-reaction story.
All the same compelling waste of time.

Doesn't matter how careful or how cavalier,
How much egomania,
How much duty,
We're all fucked.

And my big achievement of the day?
Said this little hello to the world,
Killed a five minutes,
Between then,
And now,
And when the drugs arrive to save the day.

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  1. Avatar

    Oh dear. Not a happy bunny then. But to be honest, having read a number of your posts I am not surprised. Life as an uber cynic can’t be much fun.

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