What the fuck is wrong with me?
I don't mean this in a self destructive type of way. I mean this in the most realistic of senses, and I'm asking--What the fuck is wrong with me? Because something is, and I am over it. I don't want to be this anymore. I have had enough. I want to find out what is wrong so I can get rid of it. I want to destroy the part of me that is set out to destroy my entire being.
Because this is what it feels like. When I procrastinate. When I don't work hard enough and I fuck up each chance that comes to me. When I lie in bed until noon. When I watch television. When I act like a sloth and a glutton and gnaw away at the part of me (I believe still remains) that is fundamentally good.
When I wait until the last minute to apply to the school that I have dreamed of going to for three years. To the program that I want to be in more than anything. When I am so shocked at being accepted--because, I'll be honest, I don't deserve this. Somebody else does--that I party myself into a coma for three months instead of applying for entrance bursaries and scholarships and student loans and working to make sure that I can GO.
One thing gets accomplished, so I inadvertently throw another hurdle into the mix, just to make it that much more complicated.
Why am I so terrified of success? What is it about good things happening in my life that makes me want to scream and give up and RUN away? Is there anybody else in this world that is so self deprecating? I don't know that there is. And everybody else hates this too. It isn't just me, it is everyone around me that I affect and I drive away--for some fear of just living. Of just breathing. Of just accomplishing goals and actually doing something positive with my life.
Why do I feel less deserving than every other person on this planet? And why wouldn't I be less deserving than every other person? What the hell have I done to make this world a better place? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Who the fuck cares about this? About me? Nobody!
Because who really cares about anybody else? Every one's main priority is themselves. That is why we are all fucked. That is why we all die in the end--it's like the ultimate punishment for our greed as human beings. Fatality. This knowledge, throughout our entire lives, that no matter what we do, no matter whose asses we kiss, we are all going to die.
This death sentence hangs above our heads, day and night and we fight so hard to forget about it. To carve out our own niche in a world that no matter how hard we try to change it, will undoubtedly forget about us.
We overachieve (not I), we drink too much, we snort uppers and downers and smoke things that were never meant to be smoked. We eat too much, we eat too little. We exercise to condition our bodies...we employ every method known to man to avoid this unbearable realization, that no matter who we are, we are all going to die. We make films and paintings, take photos, send postcards and write down every fucked up emotion and feeling we ever had, in this redundant effort not to be left behind. Not to be just another person.
It's a sad irony that we cannot escape. The harder we try, the more disappointed we will be in the end. The harder we will fall.
So is it any surprise, then, that I don't fucking try? That I give myself no credit for these bullshit achievements that really, truly, mean NOTHING.
All these wonderful things people do. All these fabulous things I could be doing and should be doing in order to make my life better...they are all arbitrary. They are all fucking pointless. Because no matter what; I too, like billions before me, will die and I too,
will be forgotten.

What do you call this--crazy dancer.
What do you call this twist in the wind.
Who are you, snide turn-falls.
Who are you--
this moment, this place in the sands.

Tie me--without a rope.
Haul me--back from the dead.
Bind me--with words.
Your afflictions burn like polka-dots painted--
under this umbrella of stars.

What's this? You ask without wanting--
to know.
Nothing--
I tell you without daring--
to answer.

We dance through verses sidestepping to avoid collision.
Two thousand worlds apart.
Sitting beside each other--
on the floor.

Nobody knows what this means. I don't think. Nobody cares to find out. Would you? Don't strain yourself--honey. It will all be fine in the morning--she said. But now I want to know:
who is she?
Words twist like carnivorous ribbons fighting their way through the lives we design. Words cut through our frontiers--facades, if you prefer. They destroy our own notions of ourselves. In lieu of the truth. And then one must ask: but what is truth? Where does truth begin and so end the fable? Who does lie? Who does know the difference?
I'll tell you what I know, and what I know, I know to be right. That makes it the truth--
to me.
I'll tell you that nobody tells the truth, as it is. And nobody lies, if they might get caught. We all tame our words to do our own bidding and tell others the things that we wish them to know. And tell others not of the things we wish to keep to ourselves. Such is human nature. And such will human nature continue to be until the end of time. Or beyond.
Everybody. Yes everybody, does it. And everybody, yes everybody, knows it. And nobody, not anybody, will admit to it. Because an accusation is so final and devastating that if we admit to its truth, then we have nothing left to protect ourselves from the sanctimonious hypocrisy that envelops the pathway of life.

P.S--STOP FUCKING UP MY PLANET!