Nothing

"You can safely assume that you've created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do."
Anne Lamott

~

I kept trying to change her mind but I couldn't. I had so many chances to show her that she was wrong. And I failed. Maybe there's a point behind her sickness. Maybe it's for the best that her memory is so remarkably damaged.

The soft wind falls gently on my skin and it all feels so undeserved. I seem incapable of writing anything novel. It's all a bunch of recycled secondhand words that I can't escape. I keep shedding them like dead skin and they just always find a way to grow back.

I know it's not a big lie. And I know the game isn't rigged. But think about it. What's the point of writing or reading any of this? It's useless. It's just a way to convince ourselves that our lives are worth being examined. 

But is it worth it, really? Who gave you the right to think that your life is worthy of this or that honor? Are you full of yourself to the level of believing that your struggle deserves a narrator? Does anyone really care? Or is it all for your entertainment? More drama, anyone?

Look around for God's sake.

These words are like those old reeking rags you see failing to cover an ugly balcony of a nameless shattered home. They're like a worn-out welcome mat that has no key under it. They're like a broken door. They're like my broken door. Why can't I let anyone through? Why do I not have better words?

I don't want any of this. I just want to sleep. I'm not even sure why I wake up everyday. This is not even creative. It's narrative-ish. I wonder if this mosquito knows how much I don't care about her drinking habits. I wonder if the stars who were once my friends still remember my name.

Here goes nothing. Really, nothing. Nothing at all. Do you see it? It's so empty. Can you hold it for me? Do you know this language? Do you know what I mean? I'm not even sure I do anymore. It's okay. It's all gonna be okay. We need to talk. I'm sorry. I'm tired and I'm sorry. No it doesn't matter. It's okay. I just need to get this out. Get out. Please get out. It's not your fault. It's gonna be okay.

I try my best. And they just keep dying slowly. All around me, they're all dying. And I can't seem to make a difference. Why won't they stop dying? Can we just pause life? Please.

What are you looking at? What do you see? Can you help?

It's okay. It's gonna be okay.

~

"He said: Son when you grow up, would you be the savior of the broken, the beaten and the damned?"

My Chemical Romance