Negativioso

There is nobody...nobody that I think would understand this. Perhaps I am underestimating...everyone. I would like to kill myself today. I won't . I wanted to kill myself yesterday. I didn't. I don't want to live tomorrow. I'm sure I will. But I am afraid of these feelings. I'm not sure where they came from. Do I care too much? Or do I care too little? When I am around other people, I ignore most of what they say and struggle with myself. I think "should I kill them? Or should I let them kill me?" while barely listening to the words coming out of their mouths...or maybe I do hear them, the words but just don't care or give a fuck. I'd rather kill myself than kill them...but there I go again...wanting death, but not really. I don't know if this is normal. People laugh and say "ha, ha, I know what you mean..." while I'm biting my lip and tasting blood.

My girlfriend says I'm "negative" and I should see a therapist. I'm not so sure about it. Maybe I'm just being honest, and everyone else needs to fucking die...Alright, maybe not. But my girlfriend argues with me about the pointless an absurd. And in the end, I think creates a fictionalized version of me. But maybe not. Maybe I am as horrible as she makes me out and I just don't realize it. Maybe she just doesn't like the truth...maybe I just shit on sunshine. I don't know.

That is the dilemma. You can't have both, I guess. If the sun shines on shit or a corpse, I guess you can ignore it. I can't I only see what the sun shines on. I only smell the rotting while trying to smell life, but it's all polluted around here.

If I walk outside and stretch my arms out, I'll most likely hit someone. And if I apologize, they'll think I am crazy..."who is that person, moving his arms!" They'll say in their heads or into their phones. I just need space...and air, why is that so insane? You walk through revolving doors and get lost...why is it about me?

Sometimes I touch my skin...it feels like a stranger touching me...if I allow myself that pleasure. Nobody else will touch my skin without it being "strange". And I can't seem to touch skin, without it being invasive or criminal. I can't smell skin, and think "that smells pleasant or nice or normal or exciting" without being afraid of being locked up. But all I smell is shit and pollution, anyway, no matter how hard I try to smell something like grass or sand or something natural.

Calling my mother was pointless. I tried to organize a visit to see her, not for her to see me. She made it awful, just the mere conversation. But if I tried to explain it to someone, they would say it was me...me, always turning something into a negative. As if I'm the filter. As if I make crime seem dirty, murder awful, theft and stabbings oh, so terrible...they were all fine until I uttered their existence. "We murdered and laughed until HE told someone...it was legal and amusing and just a part of life, until HE told the story about the men robbing and killing."

I don't know, maybe I am absolutely crazy. I don't think it's normal to listen to this train run through my skull 30 times a day. I don't think it's fine that people walk around in piss and shit stained pants. I don't think it's alright to watch people yell and scream and beg and kill and ignore it all. Maybe I'm the one who is fucked up because I should just accept it. I should accept the death and then watch it all again on television and romanticize the actors and deplore the actions that inspired it all...paychecks and advertizing...like Atlas who now just pushes the world closer to the sun instead of carrying it...kicking it like trash and accepting the punishment.

Why am I to be considered the "negative" person...I didn't kill or harm anybody...I wake up and I feed cats and clean the dishes and say "hello" politely...Why am I the negative person, because I witnessed the crime and told you about how terrible it is and was.

Again, this isn't a letter about suicide, this is a letter about confusion. Why am I considered to be the perpetrator of the crimes because I feel horrified by their existence? Because they make me feel. Should death make me feel happy? Should I ignore it all and shut the paper? Pretend that it is all a fucking lie? Step over the bodies, while walking around with my face in a bucket of sand? Feel nothing? Nothing at all and just move forward, without recognizing all the blood?

So I am the criminal, for walking with open eyes and expressing with mind and mouth. I am more the absurd, not the act, not the perpetrator...me, for acknowledging the blood in the streets.

Then loving with shut eyes is living and accepting not of each other but of the ability to both be blind.