oh my, you great calamity
Oh, stifle your laughter and suffer the rest, for the weary have all since abandoned this mess of a home, this façade of existence. Yeah, they’re long gone and pining is not an option. The only way to find them is to catch up and boy, you’ve got years of weed smoke and thoughtless rebellion to make up for that. Your time has long since passed.
Oh time, oh frivolous time. Time has conjured the end of you as the second hand races around your heart and the hour hand strikes vicious, like an executioner’s axe. Or perhaps its just one of those smiles you’re given, those reassuring sentiments that you hold ever so dear to your chest late at night when nobody cares for you, not even yourself. Those are the kinds of things that bring warmth through the blizzards of winter, those dogs of war, but boy, its summer time now. Would those same dear sentiments not cause you to burn up? Your flames rise so high, they burn so bright, one could only liken them to a signal flare calling out for help, or at least in theory anyway. However, we’ve discovered in the past that theory is a treacherous divine creature, is it not? Theory will strap you down to its own ideals and then gut you open when the floor cuts from beneath you. Theory will hold your head up only to get a better strike at your neck. Theory will fuck you until you’re raw and wounded and broken.
You seem depressed. Is there any way to help? What about those pills that the infomercials parade on about? What about swallowing whole, the very essence of your being with the swig of a bottle, the drag of a cigarette? You crave it, just as you crave the attention it brings, just as you bite down on the lip and chew ever so gently.
I don’t think I can help you anymore, for you refuse to help yourself. I don’t think I can hold you any longer, as your body is loosening my grip. I don’t want you to think that I don’t care, but you’re freefalling into madness again. What happens the next time? What happens then?
- R.o.A
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