2020 had been a fucked up year by all accounts. This one moment lingered in my mind... it was of making carrot soup during the Lockdown. I tried my best to find meaning in it, in the process of cooking sustenance, but all I found was emptiness. It was several months before this that I started having the urge to put a rope around my neck and jump from a tree. I didn't know where these urges where coming from. I just didn't feel real. I didn't feel connection. Like I wasn't a part of anything. Or that I mattered. Even my self was nothing. All I was, was a version of myself, an iteration attached to a name, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not overcome myself.
I started having erratic dreams. Lucid dreams. The realest of the real. I was always doing the same thing. Trying to find myself in the dream and ask myself for answers to which I did not know the question. I had to look in mirrors in the dream to find myself. I was such a stranger to myself I could see myself no other way.
The dreams came to an abrupt end with a nightmare. I eventually saw a version of myself approaching. I tried to pretend it wasn't there fast approaching me, but it was. It was, it was a devil. Frightening and terrifying. Not fully human, but wholly me. I couldn't look away, it would always remain in my eyesight, getting closer and closer... and when it reached me. I woke up. Scared and sweating.
I tried to find myself, but when myself came for me. I turned and tried to run....
...
"What have I become?!"
All the fucking bullshit. All the pretend games. It drove me mad. It turned me into a monster. I didn't care for what the TV people said, but everyone else cared and listened to their every word. Slowly I drifted from the other people, until I was "other".
I tried moving to different countries, to different cultures, but there were no bridges or connections between us. They were looping on cycles programmed into them by the television narrative. I had overcome narrative, and I saw beyond story. We had nothing in common, and with no narrative I could not see myself fitting into part of society, like some feel-good story where the misunderstood outcast finds his place.
I was done with the bullshit. I was done with people. They could all get fucked. The self-righteous. The deranged tribal thinking. The untruth tellers, and those that lap it up to fill their narrative buckets. Fuck em all. They had turned this beautiful ball of rock into nothingness. Meaningless trite with a price tag attached. And they wondered why mental health problems were spiraling out of control, as they stripped every meaning from every word, action, history, law, and anything else they could get their deconstructionist hands on. They saw me as the madman, but I was merely a natural response to my environment. I deconstructed their deconstructionism, and that is why I was a puzzle shape that wouldn't fit their jigsaw.
So I flipped the board....
Chapter 1 - Deathwish
Chapter 2 - Screaming with No Mouth
Chapter 3 - Nazi Babe with a Cute Smile
Chapter 4 - The End of the World
Chapter 5 - The Dead Streets
@RiskDebonair
Irish Writer, Poet, & Agent of H.I.V.E.