Posts Tagged ‘depression’

“Though death is howling at our backs and life is roaring at our faces, we can just begin to write, simply begin to write what we have to say”

There is one relationship that you need to cultivate and that’s between you and the page. Fuck everything else.

I’m lonely, I’m afraid, and I don’t think I’ll be around for much longer. I’m also tired and in a lot of pain. I also think sometimes that [REDACTED] is going to commit suicide. And emotion aside, what annoys me is that I’m somewhere on that path myself, so don’t you fucking dare. And yet every time I open my mouth or my keys to say something, it comes out like this, rather than true to what I think or feel. I fall into patterns that sound right or at least sound right to me, rather than any truth. I’m lonely and I’m afraid.

I feel like I forgot decades ago how to tell stories. I also suspect sometimes that my first rush of truth when I was little and said I wanted to direct films was more true than the sensible option that came after, that I wanted to write novels. Because truth is I watch films but don’t read so much, my eyes are fucked, and I always prefer listening to stories. 

And yet what is true or untrue anyway.

Here I am — sometimes forgetting that I’m sick, and yet, the pain is back and it is fucking killing me. And my 35th birthday is coming up and I don’t even know how to spend it, and I don’t actually have anyone to spend it with.  Spending your birthdays alone seems to be part of getting old for me. There is something seriously missing from me and I don’t know what. 

But I’m also annoyed with other people for being like fucking robots. And then others for not knowing when to mind their own fucking business. I spend most of my time surrounded by strangers, and I want to knife them out of existence – not in the literal sense, I mean that I want to be gone for the situation where we are living in the same space.

I want to spend my time with less and less people.
 
The only relationship you need to cultivate is between you and the page. It’s a lonely existence but that’s the truth of it.  And yet what happened to my stories, my muses, my life?  YOU LIED TO ME AND YOU LEFT ME BROKEN. And here I fucking am. Close to the end and still breathing for some apparent fucking reason.

*I wrote this over three years ago. All I’m doing is sharing unedited pages from my notebooks. Please only comment with this in mind.

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Since from the point of death you are no longer away or conscious, you will never have hindsight on your life — never see its sum total.
 
You will never get the drop on life.
 
Hindsight is a rearview mirror but that’s no good when you run into a brick wall whilst forever looking behind you.
 
And life would only make sense from beyond the end.  In retrospect.
 
So life will never make sense, never have meaning, never be complete. It just ends and shit, too late, you’re done.
 
So bitching and moaning about how if I die now it will all have been for nothing doesn’t really hold water.
 
It always was, and always will be, for nothing.
 
The sum total of life is zero.
 
Big fucking deal.
 
Skip out on life like some might skip out for breakfast.
 
Be done with it tomorrow. Or tonight. Or right now. It’s all the same.
 
Nothing is going to change no matter how much life changes. You’re only going to get older and hurt more and die.
 
Listen to the dawn chorus. Still you can’t sleep. No-one is coming to save you. That’s why you can’t rest, because you’re done trying and can’t escape the fact that you don’t have anything left in you to give to the world.
 
Just add it to the list of reasons why you can’t write and have done with it.
 
This shit will still be here tomorrow.
 
Throw it on the pile.
 
Still be here tomorrow. You won’t.
 
Figure that one out.
 
The biggest pile of shit is the one you leave behind.
 
Endless sleep and still no rest.*

*This was written years ago. I’m just sharing unedited pages from my notebooks. Nothing to see here — move along.

“For those who understand, no explanation is necessary. For those who do not, no explanation will suffice.”

I watch a documentary about Hubert Selby Jr, and alive and moved as it makes me feel, I still think about killing myself.
 
The soul is old and restless and tired. It wants to leave the body and go somewhere quiet and peaceful.
 
Not to rest — to be left alone.
 
So I plan to skip out on life in the next few days, like some people skip out of class or miss a doctor’s appointment.
 
Just to be done with it, you know?
 
No big reason. Just sick of being here still, in pain and dying slow.
 
Everything I write is so fucking toothless it makes me sick to look at it.
 
I can’t escape the fact that I still want to die. That I still don’t feel like I have a choice.
 
That I still can’t fucking write to save my soul.
 
Death won’t come howling out of you like a vengeful ghost.
 
Silence will.
 
I’m not supposed to talk of these things. And anyway, I’ve nothing to say. Fuck off.
 
Famous last words, kid. Famous last words.*

*I wrote that about two years ago. I’m still here — which counts for something. Whenever you feel that way, write a note — but don’t act. Just sleep on it. Tell a friend.