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3/4/24
5:57 PM
The past and future are smoke rising from a dumpster fire
into the drab, murky alleyway in some superhero dystopia.
Elusive and toxic, something torments me
about life never feeling worth living.
In the end, we're all just waiting to die.
Doubt and uncertainty about the future
crawl through me like winding vines ensnaring
a helpless mouse and squeezing tightly until,
with a burst, all that's left is a pile of steaming guts.
It's a sensation of fire ants pouring down my throat,
or the moment of dizziness after being spun around.
I think so little of myself that hope for the future does not compute.
If history has proven anything, it's that I'm a no-good fuck up.
How can I open my heart and mind to hope?
How do I turn my life around?
I don't know.
So much of me is in constant conflict
about whether to succeed or give up.
Two massive titans wage war in the arena of my mind,
Forever wrestling for dominance over my hope and agency.
In the dirt pit they spew mocking words and mighty blows
in a fight to the death in the name of my life.
On the left side, born from sweat and depression,
fighting to give up and be done with life, stands
Kronos, the titan of time and ferocity.
As a leader to the titans he has proven his prowess in combat.
And on the right side, the titan of justice and order, famed for her
wisdom and good counsel while maintaining peace in Olympus,
the fierce Themis stands on the basis of
continued life, wellbeing, and societal debt.
The two forces of nature have been battling for thirty-four years
and so far neither has been able to take out their opponent.
It's a bloodstained affair of impressive no holds barred combat.
Kronos, shakes with fury, intoxicated by mead,
he runs forward and bashes mountains of doubt
into my mind, the dust settling slowly while Themis
counters with a terrible side kick of mindfulness,
reassuring me to stay present in the current moment.
Back and forth they brawl tirelessly.
One day I believe I can really pull this off,
the next day I'm convinced I'll wind up dead and alone.
My girlfriend and I have been debating whether just
making it through another day alive is a point of success.
She argues it's the basis for all success,
for me, I feel guilty for how little I've accomplished.
Who cares if I beat the video game Zelda
when I haven't put any effort into myself?
How is it so many people have no problem
adapting and succeeding in life?
It's a foreign concept to me.
There was a short period in my life where
I seemed to have most things in order.
That was when I was working as a 911 dispatcher.
Somehow I made it to work everyday and actually enjoyed it.
I need to reflect on those times and see what worked,
else my gloomy disposition may take me over.
I've long held that living in the woods with
close friends is all I really want out of life.
Now, I'm almost afraid to have friends.
People leave, die, or betray too often.
It feels risky to let anyone get close
for fear of being hurt even further.
I think I feel safer without friends, an idea
I would have believed preposterous until now.
Why am I so existentially vexed at all times?
Is there some deeper meaning or is it all pointless?
