I am having an emotional crisis.
An everything-but-existential-drama.
A psychological-melodramatic-obsessive-compulsive-disorder-grazing-the fringes-of-a-neurotic-depression-pathologically-symptomatic-and-clinically-tested day.

Where should I go?
Why should I stay, or leave
Or go and meet a lifetime with you away from everyone else and everything else – and know that that is my deepest wish –, and never buy a house, but rent a room instead; and have babies; and not get married; and work in anything other than what intended and crazy and cuckooed; and never get my degree – especially that! – and waste time…, and don’t make savings, and ride the subway every day and lose my aspirations and tear apart all my plans and set their pieces on fire_

I am losing it.

…inhale, exhale…. Inhale, exhale… count to ten
(What did the doctor tell you?)
-       where in hell did I put his number…
-       if only I could recall where the hush is the post-it and why on Earth I ever got rid of my moleskin
-       and the voices ring inside my mind and I don’t have time nor space nor patience inside me to keep one person talking at a time, let alone all of these different personalities that want to_

My brain. Makes sense, no more. Momma, if my mind burns, can I watch its ashes fly in the sea or swim in the sky?

‘A year ago it was better.’, she says, pressing “pause” on her thoughts after slipping another cigarette from her purse.
‘Why do you think so?’
I know it.
I just know that indifference, and solitude, and the everlasting sensation of being lost made altogether sense when there is purpose and strive and magic veiling the mystery of not knowing… what… to do… next… with the same routine. And how to break it – the bond that seems to trap me to this miserable, despicable life that I now live.

“Living is easier when there is no free will, choosing is easier when there are no choices”, he once said. But where is the life in that, if surviving is merely getting through the day and I seriously hope that I DIE instead of becoming… that
That I hate.
The mediocre, conforming YOU that is far worse than being depress or hating oneself.

Duty, he said, is meaningless without suffering. He’s probably right.
Masochistic, inglorious pain is the most dignifying feeling that I shall ever be granted.

So be it.
I will chose. And I will go.
For I rather disappear, and die or worse – live tormented long years – than merely survive in the warmth of another fruitless, worthless, deprived of meaning “existence”.


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