The Non Sequitur.


The pain in my back is intense. Any sudden movement is agony.

My insides are all twisted and knotted up.

The pressure inside of my skull is at critical mass.

I am fighting with every fibre of my being to hold it all together. To keep myself from exploding or falling apart. I want to. There is this intense impulse that started off like a siren sounding in the background that constantly gets closer and closer till there is nothing but the siren. The siren is all there is now. The impulse to revel in the ensuing chaos and destruction.

An intimately familiar outcome that for the longest time in my life was my default option for everything. I am a professional at blowing it all to fuck as I freefall towards rock-bottom. I seem to have a “scorched earth” policy for that kind of thing. Fast. Effective. Thorough.

My explosive rage and intense self hatred coupled with complete loss of impulse control has helped me royally fuck myself over more times than i can accurately remember right now. Most probably because alcohol and drugs were a strong factor throughout most of my life.

I am already teetering on this fucking tightrope. The cancer has emptied my reserves. Long time now.

Mentally. I am still trying every day to piece together the fragments. To sift through the wreckage and put things in their place. Untangle all the knots and clear up all the mess.

I am fucking doing the best I can here. But. As always. That isn’t quite enough. Existence still demands more.

I genuinely don’t know if I am up to the task. Not for a lack of trying. I will do what I always do. Put my head down. Grit my teeth. Shoulder the weight. And take this thing as far as it lets me take it. But in the back of my mind I can fucking hear Him telling me that it won’t be enough. And a part of me believes him.

I need it to be about 10 degrees colder. Just cold enough so that some of this can numb a bit and I can finally move and breathe easier. I fucking woke up at least 4 or 5 times last night, choking for air.

A part of me thinks Good. I deserve this. To struggle even to breathe. Everything else has become a struggle. Why not this too?

At the same time it both does and doesn’t make sense to me.

There are good days. And bad days. And even good moments and bad ones within those good or bad days. Today has been a bad one. Filled with these little pockets of bad moments. A few good ones sprinkled in there too. But the bad are fucking intensely bad.

There is this feeling, most probably because of my obsession with my (hopefully) impending death, that is just like “Fuck this. I don’t want to be dealing with this. I shouldn’t be dealing with this.” I would much rather just be existing. Filling up on whatever I can before I can’t anymore.

But that doesn’t seem to be on the cards. It seems that for me, I will die just like I lived. Struggling.

And doesn’t that feel just about right.




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Costas K.

Costas K.

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