Saturday, June 30, 1990

Character Study: Despair

"After silence that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music."
-Aldous Huxley

I can feel it all inside me, like a gelatinous, bitter beast residing in my heart.  It bites, claws, pushes, pulls, pounds, punches, kicks, screams, all simultaneously, struggling to rip apart my soul to escape.  Is there no relief?  Not even my guitar can relieve me of my despair.  Writing is useless.  Talking is impossible.  When will it, at last, be wrenched free of my mind?  When will it be, at the very least, appeased?


It is a beast that I have created.  My pain is all of my very own doing.  The Beast has materialized to torment me for my mistakes.  As if it weren't bad enough that I fail at everything in the first place.  I have unwillingly poisoned my soul with the anguish of futility.  


Nothing works.  Murphy's law stipulates that Everything That Possibly Can Go Wrong Will Go Wrong.  In my case, everything, including the impossible, goes wrong.  It is inevitable.  The first dismal failure provokes a chain reaction of soul-tearing proportions.  It is beyond salvaging; I have fallen prey to insane hallucinations and paranoid delusions.  The world is falling to ruins behind me.  I may as well be directly responsible.  Imagine the money and resources wasted simply to maintain my pitiful existence!  The only unexplored possibility is the Final Option.  The Beast can feast on my useless corpse for all its morbid pleasure, and leave the rest for scavenging insects stupid enough to risk nauseating themselves on the putrid waste of my carcass.

The wounds fester in the recesses of my spirit.  Why?  Why must I be the channel for all of the negative energies in the universe?  Why should I be left completely alone to face my immeasurable agony?  Perhaps because I deserve no less.  It boils inside me, time only making it worse.  It never goes away.  Happiness no longer exists.  My despondency does not permit joy of any kind.  Relief is impossible.  The world is slipping away . . .  

1 comment:

ClosetXCloset said...

I wrote this when I was about 16 years old, and suffering from garden-variety teenage angst. It's tagged as fiction, but it started out as an outpouring of genuine frustration. What could possibly have been bothering me so much?