That empty feeling's creeping up once more. I can feel the place where something ought to feel warm, yet instead provides a mere cool sting. My energy ebbs, and I feel no compunction toward productivity. It's as if my heart just slams shut, some days. So, here's another throatfull of venom from the Abyss!
I want to wallow, to indulge, to do it all wrong. I want to fall into a state of inanimate self-indulgence, marinating in musk and grime with no one around to incite me toward action. I feel resigned to the actions of my fellow species, but I'd rather not interact with them. I'd rather just... watch their funny little dance, have them hand me what I want when I ask, maybe engage in some form of pleasantry, and then sputter off back to that self-derived delusion of comprehending the enormity of the universe.
We're so stupid. We are so very, very stupid. We deny and justify our avoidance of action, and often give our mindless impulses the same treatment. We continue to bicker over responsibilities. We take on said responsibilities of others to avoid our own, and we're so quick to permit this interaction as a form of dependency, rather than tutelage. Who wants to learn how to fucking fish when that dumbass over there keeps pulling up marlins and handing them to whomever gives him boo-boo eyes?
We cling to this elusive sense of "identity," of placement, of surety. What could we do if we gave up wondering what we could be? I can be a mini-fridge, if I just try! No, I don't want to sell mini-fridges, I want to be one. Don't stand in the way of my dream of pulling cold beer out of my midsection! Just use your imagination!!
Seriously, my imagination uses me. It's been a fanciful pit of despair that led me to ruin, with cutesy little foxes drawn in the margins. I just... want to get left alone. I want far away from my fellow thumb-bearing bipeds. We're just a waste of good carbon.
I suppose this is like William Murderface moving from "maybe I should just kill myself" in the first season of Metalocalyse to "maybe you all should just kill yourselves" in the second. It's a progression in the black pit of despair. Cultivating the ever-present light seems like trying to fix something that ain't broke, and I kind of like my darker moments more than my lighter ones. I feel accomplished when I can figure my way through all of that bile I accumulate over the course of a day and use it to create, to change, to act in truth. I feel stronger, I feel more at peace after sitting in the dark, watching the unfortunate side of humanity unfold, because I know that it has some strange, twisted merit when engaged. I'd really like to know what it's like to dash someone's head open with a steel bat, but that's hardly a constructive use of time, despite the difficulty in sublimating that urge toward something useful. I bet it has some horrid beauty to it; oh well, I suppose I'll just make due.