Nameless Depressed

Do you know what it's like when you want to cry but can't get those tears out?

Or better yet, you stare your eyes through mirrors that shatter from the intensity of the act. Glass shards make your eyes red. You hope in the least for blood to seep out if not tears, but your own fucking body disappoints.

Then the man comes to your dreams again. NO... my dreams. The man has scattered himself across my fiction. He's starved and almost dead, but his walk of a worker in '60s Russian films gets me. The formal trousers disguise his thin legs. He doesn't look skinny because of the excess dangling skin—attached deep in his marrow. He got the walk of the future as I call it. I'm not talking about time, and my head aches now to explain; I might explain it beneath some other roof.

I barely slept for a week. I need some rest, though I know sleep is like tears, they don't come. And tears are again like humans. I am already an outcast, should I revert myself from this race too?

Rick B. Buy me a pen

I wish the future could at least play a pretentious game of obligations. It gives way to an agony greater than at the greatest losses—purer than the loss of one's father. Yes, agony has purity. The more visible your future is, the less pure your agony gets. If you broke your pen but could buy another one, your agony is impure with the smell of new plastic. If you fear the sheer intensity of it will fade, your agony is impure.

What a numbness it shall be when my pure agony ends. But I fear the obscene calmness will ruin it. At the end of a long day, before drifting off, a cold breath goes through your throat to cool your lungs. Your brain shuts off and the nerves relax. Is this supposed to happen when you're unconscious? Nevertheless, it happens then. It is all the more logical to expect the same before suicide.

While this isn't the future, that I talked about that lowers agony's intensity, it is comparable. In a way, it is too the future or the sure absence of it. By this then, future surety would be the right term.

So, what happens to someone who has lost their future surety?

They descend. From society? Maybe in the eyes of others but not themselves as they have long parted ways. They stay in a room of a house where life might still go on in its liveliest forms. Just that the person is forgotten and he now dreams. Dreams, not like in sleep but more in obscure scenes of active imagination. They dream of blooded creatures which the others consider human as they have memories of it being one. Once a human is always a human, the others would say to comfort a mother. Creatures like withered crying women and starved men whose empty eye sockets are filled with blood. Then slowly, slow enough to start the physical decomposition of their bodies, the dreams faint. The redness of the lands of these creatures fades into the layered morning fog. They become observers who can't think, poets who can't write. Then death comes in. Heartbeat stops way after they are dead. If you remember the forgotten being and are brave enough to shake their head they'll fall like a corpse, and observe you in silence.

They will be alive like that for eternity. A symbol of shame to the human race.

Rick B. Buy me a pen

1st of January 2023, I was writing my best guess on how a suicide victim feels before killing themselves. How peaceful it shall be? I compared it to hitting bed after a long day.

Beginning of 2022, I was trying to find comfort in The Stranger by Albert Camus which is still my favourite novel and likely to remain so.

2021, for the lack of records I question that year's existence.

Sometime in 2020, I wrote on the back of a notebook, “I feel like dying.” Pathetic for a 12/13 year old.

I don't recall having a diary/journal before that. What can you expect from a kid who hasn't hit puberty yet—of course talking about the old me. _____________

Though I remember little fragments of the past year through journal entries, it feels so far away. That's natural, you might say, which I agree with. But reality becomes last night's dream when every other year feels equally distant. Not more or less.

My life's a single day paraphrased to fit a new entry. The same rants about suicidal considerations, and the same ideas in fiction notebooks. The stories I write are monotones. Not a fucking emotional arc. How could I get a character from depression to mania when I haven't experienced that before? It's like writing about psychedelics without trying one. Like describing how the smoke felt running down your throat without smoking a cigarette.

I don't journal the material changes around me. No one does. They get into a journal when they hold emotion. You won't find a glass of water on Sunday evening inscribed in one's heart. I have no emotional change, I shall not feel shit if the world burns. Perhaps sadness if the fire doesn't touch me but my tea.

I don't remember the 5th of January and I would accuse calendars to be deceiving us, hell a government conspiracy it is, cause I don't have a journal entry of it.

Could I trust my entries? I could have miss-marked a page and I wouldn't have noticed. That 7th would be 6th forever. I was closer to suicide on 6th than 7th, I'll say but that won't matter as the day of reading would be the worst anyway.

As such my days go until my life ends in the sure known way. I drown in self-hatred every night for postponing so far.

Rick B. Buy me a pen