Droning, Gnawing, Inescapable Brain Rot

 

    The days are passing in an inescapable murky haze of sludge and thickening bile. Trying to wade through it to get to the other side, to the promise of a new day and a new chance at working towards making something of this nonsensical existence, has become increasingly difficult over the past few weeks. Or has it been months? I'm not sure. Time is a droning drip-drop of confusion and decay. It bleeds out of you as if you are aimlessly wandering around on the street with your gut slit open, your entrails dragging behind you, leaving a trail of your leaking lost humanity until you are pale, shriveled-up, and drained of all your clockwork innards - left to boil in the expanding sun. Puddles of bodily fluids left in your wake; pooled up and evaporating memories of past failures, scorned relationships, broken ambitions, unresolved traumas, and an overabundance of wasted days. People dragging themselves behind you, their leaking entrails leaving their very own traces, will trample over the puddles with a gradually decaying remembrance of anything that you were until it's all gone in totality and there's not a single trace of you left on this doomed rock in void-dark space. 

I'm hearing whispered rumors at night while I try and fail to rest my unquiet head. Scratchy squirming sounds that gradually coalesce into atonal hums of words. They're saying I'm an insect. An insect head on a human body, an insect mind inside an oversized human skull, impossibly overwhelming human emotions and desires behind insect eyes. Or maybe it's all the other way around; I'm not so sure what they keep whispering behind the shadowed crevices in my walls. No matter what my nature is, I awake each and every morning with my brain on the floor. Everything is topsy-turvy and exceptionally wrong. 

I don't know what the point of my writing all of this was supposed to be. I've lost track of it all at this point. Regardless, I'm impatiently awaiting someone to come along and squash my head into infinitesimal rancid bloodied bits of rot. 

-

An impossibly thick brain fog and a profound sense of depersonalization and dissociation have been overwhelming my meager existence for nearly the past month now - and I don't see any sort of end of it all in sight. The proverbial light at the end of the tunnel is further and dimmer than ever before and I feel like an absolute joke for feeling any of this as strongly as I am. I started working on a short story back in November (I haven't completed a short story since last July, I believe) that is a heavily fictionalized retelling of a stupid little event that happened to me just over four years ago now. The current title of the story, and I suppose also the synopsis, is I Tried to Kill Myself to Thunder Perfect Mind. Most of this story is handwritten in my old notebook but has barely been typed up and formatted into a proper story. It has been an open tab on my desktop for months now and any time I return to it I feel terrified to the point of complete mental and creative collapse. 

And then there's the book I was working on. And the collection of short stories I was tasked with writing for someone back in October...which I have written all of 10 pages so far. All these months I've been at least able to write poetry fairly consistently, but even that has become nigh impossible. The few poems I've managed to spill out from my deflating brain have been wholly mediocre or flat-out bad and unremarkable. Now, I realize that I think that everything I write is terrible, but these past few poems really do seem terrible in a different way. It is all like treading water at this point, just endlessly pontificating on the same old bullshit using the same words in different rearrangements over and over again. It's too much at this point and I severely believe that my ability to be creative and be an "artist" has, perhaps momentarily, vanished from my already limited skillset. 

All that said, I did start a new poem recently. And have been meaning to expand upon it with a certain theme and a series of visuals in mind. The task I set out for myself was to express a sort of twisted mockery of what my funeral might be and contemplate the limited influence I would leave behind - or lack thereof. But it's not coming together how I'd want it to, and I believe it is going to shape up to be another lackluster exercise in self-depreciation. Which is getting much too old at this point. I don't know if anyone out there is reading this or has kept up with my writing to the degree that they would even care about anything I'm saying, but I do apologize for my lack of work recently. And I apologize for the work that I have been able to produce and share has been of unremarkable quality. Or just simply much too trite at this point. 

I guess that's it for now. Hopefully, I will have new creative work up here soon, but I'm not so sure. The past few weeks have been strange and difficult and to make matters worse...I reached out to I____ the other day. It didn't go as terrible as I thought it would but it sent me into a horrible spiral that resulted in taking an overabundance of medication and passing out for the rest of the day. Then the next day I sat down and wrote a five or so page letter to her that I foolishly ended up sending. I've doomed myself, I've invited pain and suffering back into my house to a ridiculous and impossible-to-handle degree and, yet again, there is no one to blame but myself. Time and time and time again... it's all the same, it's all the same. 

I truly hope this endlessly pervasive brain fog lifts soon. If it doesn't, then I will only feel more strongly compelled to make good on my promise and finally destroy myself. I guess we'll see.