Say hello, to the ever-consuming feeling. The blank realization that this is the last time. This is the absolute, gold-plated, cold as the real life truth, last damn time. Don’t go waxing on nostalgic, turn off all sentimental systems, never mind the whole poetic meaning behind, behind whatever thing you choose to infect with said poetic meaning. Take it all in, take everything in. This is the last time, feel the looming inevitability, the dark ominous metaphorical cloud. Nothing comes after. There will be no half-assed effort to try to mellow it down. Shoot this in the head, shot it in the middle of the eyes, kill it before it knows its dead, before it hits the ground. There are no take-backsies, or redo, or even a goddamn fucking undo. Move on and walk away, tell yourself that this is it. Goddamn put a fucking period on it. Nothing comes after. No more lying and even trying to beg. No more long drawn out debates on your defense on your own, personal, lucid actions. You gave birth to thing, this freak, take to the shed to kill it. Your’e way past your damned bedtime, its time to rest. Stop this.
Fail later after the hunger kicks in with an unholy vengeance the magnitude of which is akin to God running rampant with Egypt Ten Plagues type. In your miniature head.
You can’t stop says I.
You will never stop.
This is no psychological cycle that you just have to cut halfway through and just move on like a damned car crash. The metaphorical car crash has happened, you died in it. You never walked through it. You never will.
There will be no scars to look after, we will just take care of the corpse.
Squirm and try to find meaning in whatever cathartic existence you have squeezed out of this. Try to stay alive, try to even look alive for the psychological fishes. Do what you want, it will fail with the finality of the fucking scythe. Try to have a goddamned meaning. People will come, they will come in goddamned waves. They will help, specifically they will try to help. They will fail. They will try again, and they will fail again. This is the true cycle. The cycle of people that will come and help you. They will come and you will drain them of all their damned life, you will drain the very blood out of your faces. They will turn into poor little shadows of yourself until they get tired, sick, until they can’t take it anymore, until they realize that its not you, it’s them, until they try to fix themselves first, until they are ready to help you. After which the next batch comes along. And you will drain them too.
You will easily run out of friends likewise, you will collect entities. Psychological demons and whatnot. Things needed to be purged.
When you are done doing this, when you are alone in some decrepit room you have made yourself by making it smell as bad as you like a vapid street dog. When your only belongings are the things the medic found lying near you which isn’t stained by your grotesque humanity. When you have become accustomed to the smell of your own shit. When you wear said smell like a fucking cologne. When the number of clothes you have does not exceed the number of fingers you have, in one fucking hand. When light feels like a thousand burning needles looking at you with disgust, contempt. When even the damned light is fucking disappointed at having to show you to the world. Breathe in.
Help isn’t coming by the way.
Breathe in, and let it all go out, along with your tortured and broken soul. Let the fucker have some long sought-after rest. Let the fucker go. Just plainly die. Shoot it in the middle of the eyes, kill it before it knows its dead, kill it before it hits the floor.
Die.
Then walk under the sun with a smile on your face. Realize you have to kill yourself to live.
atticrage 