"Taking himself seriously, so you don't have to."

The Saddest Note

All of my love, I love you so much. I loved you. But I cannot feel my heart anymore. I cry because there is no other emotion coming out. My skin ripples and sparks. There is a mask on me, cracking. But it only touches the surface. My muscles are clenched. I cannot move my mouth. It’s forced. My eyes burn. I cannot make. I cannot feel the stranger in front of me. I cannot feel my friends. I cannot feel my family. I can only feel a lonely shell, a broken heel, a deadweight, a lying, emotionally-detached specimen: uncaring, hated and loathed by his own self, the worst sort of fool. Hated and loathed by others. I cannot make you laugh, because I do not know how. I do not know why I laugh. I think it’s just to feel like others for a moment. To have some connection, to feel something where I once felt love. I am so lonely. And I don’t know how to communicate it.

Feeling so worthless, so terrible because I can’t identify, because I am so self-absorbed, so ego-centric, so supernaturally altered, so different from anyone. I cannot communicate. My anger is wasted- there is no single thing to fight besides the water. There is so little to be done in the moment. I want what I cannot have, and I do not know what I do have. I knew it years ago.

In my teens, talking with someone during a Scrabble game online, I knew it then: I would never appreciate the good things unless they were taken from me. Or I found myself without them. The funny thing is this: at the times that I felt closest to being without [the good things] were some of the best days of my life. I cannot break them up though, I cannot feel the way I did then. It’s a most horrific fate to hate yourself. It’s even worse to see yourself as the monster, to look squarely in the mirror, straight into those eyes and see through to a selfish heart, to see a bitter, spiteful, paranoid soul that sucks the life, the joy from those around him. And even worse, to see nothing that can change this fact. Nothing that I can do, besides give my love away. But no one will take it. I am sorry that this is sad. Some day, I can only hope that it will be a happier love.

Then, you might say, “You have no right to feel that way.” As though one’s happiness could be gauged with money, comfort, and entertainment. I cannot feel them. I feel a rush of the nicotine, I feel the strength of the alcohol, the sting in my lungs. To run and jump, I feel the rush of blood to muscle, the beating of my heart. I feel it. Eating: I taste it and it is good. I watch a movie and it makes me laugh. But then, in everything, I scrutinize. And it internalizes. I want to talk, to tell my stories. I know who I am now. I know what I do. But my love is unrequited. And it took so long to feel it… sent back. Disregarded. I was running on the fumes of my love. But even they have been gone for some time. Maybe that is my problem. There is no more love to give.

You all know the story of the businessman who spends all his life to make money that he doesn’t know what to do with. He works away, making schemes without positive creation, toward an end that provides him no real meaning. I can see this happening. I see the possibilities in myself. I see, more and more, a man who can find nothing worthwhile, no real meaning. But these speculations that affect me so are like passing moods, that criss-cross themselves through me. I’ve always listened to the advice. I’ve tried to do what others have thought was best. I trusted them all, I trusted you. And they were right. You were right. Because here I am, on stage, speaking my own thoughts, my own ideas, showing my own. The best reason for showing my work is because I think these ideas are important.

That’s why I show them, that’s why I work on them. Also, I think about them all the time, especially in depressive moods, so I would not be genuine if I didn’t show them. Another reason: shame. It’s that feeling in the gut that tells you that you’re not doing enough. That you’re wasting resources on living needlessly, that the things you’ve done don’t add up to what you’ve been given. Or what you’ve taken. Every person that I don’t make smile adds to it. A never-ending pile of missed chances. It’s already built up enough that I owe the world for the rest of my life. I’m trying real hard. I’m not perfect. But I think I’m starting to understand that no one else really know what’s going on inside my head. Some time ago, I felt strange because my friends knew me better than I knew myself. That is definitely not true anymore. I’ve gotten to know myself pretty well lately, having little other company, though not short of trying. This has been the most trying time in my life. Working to find happiness. And I’m sorry. The worst part of it all is lacking a memory. I blew my brains out a while ago. Too much information and too much thought. Reborn? No. Reprogrammed, really. That’s the hardest part with finding happiness and yourself, how can you know when you already forgot?

As I sit, my heart does not beat in my chest. It is smeared on my sleeve and tied to my foot like a ball and chain. Every bounce, step, jolt or jerk twists it and wrenches me. I wince and you see me do it. I hear you ask “why do you do that to yourself?” I have no answers for you, as I am as clueless. I hope to find some way to put it back in. To make myself whole again. Every once and a while, I try to pick it up. I stop and try to fix it, but it slips out of my hands and I say “At least I still have it,” and keep moving forward along with everyone else. And then I try again, thinking my hands are working better now, I grip it tight so it doesn’t slip, but it hurts too much. So I let go. Then I use a drug or two, hoping if I forget again it will come back on its own, like a dog freed to the wild. But it never comes back, because I never let it go. I can’t let it go. It will never leave me. Because there is no chain, there is no heart on my ankle. There is no blood smeared on my sleeve. There is no fixing, no stopping, no pause as the world spins. I cannot fix it and I cannot let it go. I am damaged, but I am good.

Sometimes there’s so much there, it’s hard to keep the good things together.

There is no life where I live. There is only death. I cannot keep doing this alone. I am filled with nothing but regret for events so recent as a minute before. Regret for the things I have not done, regret for missed chances, regret and shame for plotting, evil thoughts of machinations. And by this very scrutiny, I falter, I hesitate, and I feel hate. I feel such stabbing pain when I see that look of disapproval.

My chemistry is off. I need help. I don’t care if you think it’s dignified. And I’m not some sort of role model. I’m not a reality star. I’m an artist dammit! I’m not here for your entertainment! But… well… actually, it appears, yes, I am here for your entertainment. But I hope you learn something too.

But now, I want to sleep. I want to sleep for a long time. I need the sleep or I cannot take the morning. I need rest and rejuvenation. I need some one to love, not some thing. Not some idea. Please, let me put your life above mine, once again.

Please God, please everyone… let me love again. Without love, I cannot live.

One Comment

  1. At last some ranitoality in our little debate.

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