I wanted to give you the love I thought you deserved, and everything else…I figured that was the price I had to pay… for thinking I also deserved my love…

We thought we were floating

Amongst the clouds,

But when our fingers

Began to sink into

Their white underbellies,

We understood.

 

The air was smoke,

Born from a warmth

We mistook as the sun.

It was just another fire,

Another wasted

Spark of romance.

 

It turns out love

Can feel an awful lot

Like burning alive.

“I am empty, but oddly enough, this emptiness feels heavy…it feels so damn heavy.”

I can’t cry anymore. I used to cry driving home every day. I used to cry in the shower, and when I laid down for bed. I turned to drugs and alcohol to numb my mind, so I wouldn’t have a free thought left to drift towards my unpleasant past, or at least the unpleasant past my depression had formed in my head. I cried for a myriad of reasons. I was sad about where I was in my career, feeling like a failure compared to my friends and family. I was angry at my body, because I couldn’t force it to do anything I wanted, yet it forced bite after bite down my throat until I ballooned into a 200lb ball of blubber and despair. I was anxious around anybody, even people I had known all my life; I felt everyone judging me, even though they only wanted to help, and I couldn’t stand feeling so pathetic. I raged on the weekends, wrecking my apartment and getting reprimanded by my landlord. I became a hermit after leaving work, ignoring my phone and burying my guilt in layers of unwashed hoodies, empty pill bottles and half-eaten pizzas. I was disgusted with myself for even trying to find happiness, giving into my desires and finding random partners for hollow sex. None of those were “good” feelings, but they weren’t nothing. I wasn’t happy, but I wasn’t empty. I told myself I was empty, but I wasn’t empty.

Today I woke up early. It was warm outside for an Ohio October day, so I took a walk. During my walk, I watched the sun break through the trees lining my street, and I saw kids standing on the corner, waiting for the bus, and at least 3 joggers passed me over the course of 10 minutes, and 2 dogs were being walked, and lawn care providers were beginning their days, and when I made it back to my apartment I realized I wasn’t a part of anything. Things were happening all around me; life was happening, but I wasn’t a participant. I saw everything from the outside, because none of it meant anything to me. I should have been upset about this, but I didn’t feel anything. I thought I’d be mad at myself, but I didn’t care. I thought I’d be sad, realizing I had no place in this world, but I didn’t care. I thought I’d swallow a bottle of pills, drown myself in a cold shower, and text my boss an excuse as to why I wouldn’t make it into work this week. But I didn’t care.

I couldn’t feel anything. I could see all the same things, draw all the same conclusions, and land on the appropriate emotion I should be experiencing, but I couldn’t touch those feelings.

I often thought I would end up in such a rage I would accidently throw myself off my balcony, or make a cut so deep I would bleed out in my bathtub. I thought I would feel so sad I would swallow every pill in my cabinets, and let those little medical wonders take me away to a new Hell. I thought I’d drink until I couldn’t speak, and try calling him again, hoping that after all these years he might pick up, just so I could hang up the phone the second he said hello, and a split second later I would put a bullet in my brain without ever telling anybody goodbye.

I thought I would die from those feelings, that all the sorrow and rage would drive me into a corner until I had no choice but to end it all. But I never did. I kept on going, and those feelings kept on flowing through everything that I did. I wasn’t empty, but I was being hollowed out. It took years and years, but I finally see what the end is.

I felt so much that all I wanted to do was die, but that was rooted in a desire to escape, and I wanted to escape because deep down I wanted to live. Now, I don’t care if I die, and that’s rooted in a lack of any desire to live. Dying isn’t an escape, it’s just another path, another way to reach the finish line. I could do it 5, 10, 50 years down the road, and it wouldn’t change a thing. So why bother? It doesn’t matter. Today is as good a day as any, so why not now? Why not make today my final day?

It doesn’t matter, so I might as well just die.

“I am October, Ohio.”

I am October’s colors, my skin the reflection of bruised peaches and burnt honey. I stick to all things green, suckling away at their breast, until only a shriveled husk remains, clinging onto skeleton branches, begging the wind to let them be. My winds are not so kind as to carry any calls for help, even if it would be in my self-interest. I am October, Winters harlot and Summers whore. I welcome September with amber whispers, while Death waits in the kitchen for crumpets and tea. Before November arrives, I will have suffocated every cul-de-sac’s front yard with the flesh of ancient oaks, and laugh along with the children as they make piles of the refuse skin to jump and play in. I am October, a fire without heat, burning the sunset past the horizon, leaving life tinged the shallow shade of a red run dry. I am October, because we are the same; we are only beautiful when we are dying.

“Everyone is a someone, and while you don’t know who you are right this second, it’s still a fact that you will always be you.”

Walking around the corner, I looked up, searching for the sky. The buildings blocked any shine from the Sun, and all I could think was “what a boring view.” An endless universe exists up there, and I can only see a fraction of a fraction in the best situations, and here I am, living in a place that takes away from my already scant view of the universe. I can’t even see the sun rising or setting, instead relying on nuclear powered clocks to tell me when I need to start my day. Those same clocks have dictated every aspect of my existence, and they have no idea who I am. To be fair, clocks are inanimate objects, and thus are exempt from having to pick out the traits that define my person. Clocks can’t be expected to know who I am, but it shouldn’t be asking to much that I might know who I am.

I’ve lived my life, but I’m not living, am I? A part of me is screaming for some adult logic. I’m busy thinking about the infinity of the universe, but I still haven’t finished my bachelors. What could someone with so little experience do? I need to follow the advice of those that came before me, and trust that the path they have put me on will guide me into a great person.

But would that person be me?

“Something is only considered trash because someone comes along and labels it as trash. So when I say I’m trash, it’s not that I’m inherently nothing, but after 20 some years of experiences, I can’t define myself as anything but trash.”

There was nothing I could have done..

~Do you really believe that? That there was nothing you could have done, nothing at all?~

I just wanted to be loved, to feel what love was supposed to be, that forever and always type of love that grows stronger each day, bringing smiles and family and so much warmth…I just wanted a love like that..

~You had it, all of it, and you know you never deserved it, but you got it anyway, you lucky bastard. And now you are blaming fate, destiny, God, for the outcome? You had all the help in the world, and even still, you lost! You lost EVERYTHING!. That’s not destiny, that was YOU! ALL YOU! THAT WAS ALL YOUR FAULT, JUST.. just you..~

So I never could have held onto it, because that’s who I am, huh? I can’t feel comfortable. I’ve never felt comfortable in my own skin, seeing the world through my own eyes… So no matter how much the world gave me, I could never, ever, hold on… I couldn’t, I never could have…

~We’re just a pile of excuses; walking, talking human debris. No, we’re even less. We’re less than garbage, less than dirt.. The lowest of the low…We’re truly the definition of a scummy, wasted, worthless existence..~

“In the end, it ends how it began; you weren’t there, and you aren’t here, and I’m sure I’d be fine, if you just stayed..”

It’s nothing more than simple math; if you add 0 to anything, it doesn’t do a damn thing. I used to think I was a 0, that I was just nothingness floating through space, not contributing anything of value, but also not taking anything away. Over time I started to feel that I couldn’t be a 0, because my heart felt so heavy. Surely I’ve picked up a few things over the years, giving me some sort of value. I finally took the time to look back, back into my life, and it all become clear; I had picked things up, but none of those things stuck. Behind me is a trail of recyclable litter, useless garbage, and death. I took from those around me, but I didn’t put those things to good use, and ended up just throwing it all away. So I’m not a 0, I’m a negative value. I’ll rip away from others, steal the things they would willingly share, if I only would ask. I leave nothing, learn nothing, and become so much less than nothing…I am less than nothing…and I can’t imagine a scenario where I could ever make up for what I’ve taken from the world. I can’t even the score. I can’t give enough to cancel out the net loss that is my 27 years of existence. I can’t do a goddamned thing…for the world…or for me…so please, understand when I say I want to die, it’s not because I’m trying to make up for my sins, or atone for anything; I never could do those things. All I can do is fade away selfishly, using my last moments to take just a tiny bit more from this world. But that will at least minimize the damage I would do if I kept on living, and it will give me a chance to rest…so please, understand…I just want to stop being this monster…I want to stop this feeling, cancel out this knowledge I have about just how terrible I really am…I’m tired, so please…don’t hate me when I die.

“You walk around in the shadow of your sins, looking for an Ocean to drown out the last dredges of your humanity.”

Whenever I’m alone, the darkness starts to set in, and I devolve into a mass of guilt and cruelty. I recognize my own sins for what they are; conscience decisions made in the face of a two-faced God. All of the good I’ve accomplished in this world is credited to my creator, while any evil committed in his name is still paid for with my blood? I am forced to bear the burden of being a creature who commits ill deeds by his own selfish desires, but my God, the center of the Universe, the benevolent God who created all, he takes none of the blame. I never asked for these feelings. I never asked to be brought into this world. I never wanted to have the choice, the human choice, to do wrong. Why would my God create an existence from such pliable clay? Leave me in the sun, and I melt away, or leave me in the cold, and watch my exterior crinkle and crack, until I’m a pile of hatred and regret. A good worker does not blame his tools, yes? So God cannot blame that clay. God cannot blame the stars he scattered, nor the Angels he banished. God cannot blame time, for he is timeless. He cannot blame the unknown, for he is all knowing. God cannot blame a single soul, for every inch of every soul was forged in his image, by his hands, and his hands alone. God cannot blame who I am on his failures, because he cannot fail. So I’m left taking on that weight; Mount Olympus on my back, the Garden of Eve the chip on my shoulder, and the words of a God who demands I accept him before he would ever accept me. Tell me, does a father need to have his son ask for help to receive it? Does a father not bear the responsibility, to look after and teach, to lead his children down a path of kindness? Is that not the role of a parent?

I was born with sin in my heart, because God told me so. I can only be forgiven through his blood, because he told me so. I must find God, and give my life to God, in order to be saved. That does not sound like a loving father. That sounds exactly like a prideful, arrogant, petty child. Those are the demands of a spoiled brat, the decision of someone with self imbued omnipotence.

God created me, and I am a mass of spineless sins, choking on the despair born in the very first thought of my existence. I am blamed for all that is wrong, while it is demanded I return all acts of good back into the hands of my creator. O what a truly merciful God! What a completely outstanding  example of fatherly love! What a marvelous, magical, monstrous saviour, our so called merciful Lord!

In the end, I cannot rely on God to fix me, because he has nothing to do with me. I must reforge myself from the scarps of my soul I’ve scattered across the skies and the seas, until I have saved enough of me to walk towards a heaven where I can truly be free.