Sunday, March 04, 2007

Writing Letters Never Meaning to Send

I've seen the end of mankind and can tell no one. It interrupts too many people's plans. So what is one to do? Whistle past the graveyard like the rest of my fellow inmates? Vigorously blog against it? Get rich and say, "Fuck the world!"? I know not the answer.

The question defeats me. How does one rejoice on a sinking Titanic? I see the point of nothing. Futility is one hell of a de-motivator. Should I blog or beer? Increasingly the answer is beer. I find myself just sitting, staring at the early evening shadows, my entire life an historical lie, an event that never happened. I just thought I existed.

I could stay in this moment forever, suspended between heaven and hell - all the world an historical lie, a place that never existed. I would be alone to commune with God and my Maker would speak freely to me. "This world gives me nothing," I would say. "It's hard to build a bridge that no one will cross." God said he would love to cross it. And I cried.

Nowhere Man sits in blind sorrow. "Who have I made things good for?" I can't let them in the door. Here, let me show you my world. I've destroyed it so that I may live in meaningless despair and humiliation. And then they say, "Prove it!" in order to hide their own sins. Madness all. May God destroy all those who bring debate to the truth. I just want to be held.

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