Michael
12-30-2003, 09:08 PM
All of my greatness lies beneath me on my bedroom floor and, because I am not someone chosen by those who draft, at random, lives to be sent to the public for display, my bedroom floor will be my reception and acclaim.
I wonder why I am so sick tonight. I wonder why my head aches. I wonder why I am the example of physical defeat. I wonder why my body has descended the mountain of health. I wonder why I am paying for this awful merchandise if I did not order it.
Am I someone’s experiment? Am I so sick because I have failed so often or is this bitterness of well being intended as just another failure?
Each individual human being is a peg who is uniquely crafted to fit one specific space in life and only one. My space has been confined to failure. I hate what I would not fail at and I fail at that which I love.
I am one of failure’s more frequent abodes and so I must believe that my new thought will end in failure. Were I crafted for a different space, maybe she would be incarnate hope, but my space is confined to failure. And my wanting her gives failure proportions of the most awful magnitude.
Does the loss of one’s mind need accompany the loss of one’s life? I am losing both, now, at a frighteningly rapid pace. But why should I be frightened to die? Death could be no less than a final failure. Maybe I should actually aid this failure. But it could never work. I would only fail and who knows where I’d be?
Someday, someone will come along who really cares. They’ve been here already and they’ve left. People who really care come and go and take their care with them because my space has a big sign hung from its peg which reads “DEFEAT” and everyone who comes my way acts accordingly. I’m supposed to fail. Like a teacher is supposed to teach or a barber is supposed to cut hair, I’m supposed to fail. So, you see, we’re all “suppose to” people whether we want to be or not.
I love writing, but she’ll reject me because of the sign on my space. I’m not feeling self-pity because that would be fruitless. I have nothing to do with that sign, and, since I don’t know how it was attached, I don’t know how to detach it. I don’t know the way out from this space because I was blind folded when I was put here. One day, all of a sudden, I opened my eyes and I was here and there was this sign which read “DEFEAT” hanging around my neck, choking me slowly until now.
So, this is my physical problem. I’ve been choked by defeat. I’m a creator, but I create ungrateful monsters which try to kill me with their stagnant states. They refuse to mature, thus fulfilling my destination of failure. Even now, I give life to another one of my assassins. Unappreciative bastards! All of them!
I was trained to say, “Thank you, God, for thinking of me”, but my creatures don’t thank me. They kill me instead. They stand still. They stay in one place. They lie on my bedroom floor. They’re all parasites. I improve them, I recopy them, revive their dead parts and they become stronger. But they use their strength against their creator.
I am so sick. I am physically so sick and I don’t even have a happy thought. Writing was lost before I even had her.
My space confines itself to failure, so you must act accordingly. If you don’t reject me, I will be happy, much too happy to understand it. I am building confidence and also building failure’s prestige. You see, intensity is prestige for failure.
Why was the sun created when I was destined to be a consequence? I want my space and me rebuilt!
Ignorance is bliss. I didn’t know anything about spaces and pegs. Who told me? Why would anyone want to destroy my bliss?
So now I know. I have a sign hanging around my neck, choking me, ungrateful masterpieces spending their existence in repose around the floor of my bedroom and one more bead to add to the string of failure’s accomplices.
What’s strange, though, is now I’ll sleep and later I’ll try anyway. After all, I’m supposed to.
I wonder why I am so sick tonight. I wonder why my head aches. I wonder why I am the example of physical defeat. I wonder why my body has descended the mountain of health. I wonder why I am paying for this awful merchandise if I did not order it.
Am I someone’s experiment? Am I so sick because I have failed so often or is this bitterness of well being intended as just another failure?
Each individual human being is a peg who is uniquely crafted to fit one specific space in life and only one. My space has been confined to failure. I hate what I would not fail at and I fail at that which I love.
I am one of failure’s more frequent abodes and so I must believe that my new thought will end in failure. Were I crafted for a different space, maybe she would be incarnate hope, but my space is confined to failure. And my wanting her gives failure proportions of the most awful magnitude.
Does the loss of one’s mind need accompany the loss of one’s life? I am losing both, now, at a frighteningly rapid pace. But why should I be frightened to die? Death could be no less than a final failure. Maybe I should actually aid this failure. But it could never work. I would only fail and who knows where I’d be?
Someday, someone will come along who really cares. They’ve been here already and they’ve left. People who really care come and go and take their care with them because my space has a big sign hung from its peg which reads “DEFEAT” and everyone who comes my way acts accordingly. I’m supposed to fail. Like a teacher is supposed to teach or a barber is supposed to cut hair, I’m supposed to fail. So, you see, we’re all “suppose to” people whether we want to be or not.
I love writing, but she’ll reject me because of the sign on my space. I’m not feeling self-pity because that would be fruitless. I have nothing to do with that sign, and, since I don’t know how it was attached, I don’t know how to detach it. I don’t know the way out from this space because I was blind folded when I was put here. One day, all of a sudden, I opened my eyes and I was here and there was this sign which read “DEFEAT” hanging around my neck, choking me slowly until now.
So, this is my physical problem. I’ve been choked by defeat. I’m a creator, but I create ungrateful monsters which try to kill me with their stagnant states. They refuse to mature, thus fulfilling my destination of failure. Even now, I give life to another one of my assassins. Unappreciative bastards! All of them!
I was trained to say, “Thank you, God, for thinking of me”, but my creatures don’t thank me. They kill me instead. They stand still. They stay in one place. They lie on my bedroom floor. They’re all parasites. I improve them, I recopy them, revive their dead parts and they become stronger. But they use their strength against their creator.
I am so sick. I am physically so sick and I don’t even have a happy thought. Writing was lost before I even had her.
My space confines itself to failure, so you must act accordingly. If you don’t reject me, I will be happy, much too happy to understand it. I am building confidence and also building failure’s prestige. You see, intensity is prestige for failure.
Why was the sun created when I was destined to be a consequence? I want my space and me rebuilt!
Ignorance is bliss. I didn’t know anything about spaces and pegs. Who told me? Why would anyone want to destroy my bliss?
So now I know. I have a sign hanging around my neck, choking me, ungrateful masterpieces spending their existence in repose around the floor of my bedroom and one more bead to add to the string of failure’s accomplices.
What’s strange, though, is now I’ll sleep and later I’ll try anyway. After all, I’m supposed to.