Warning: bleak truths!

One year ago, I was pretty damn sure I wanted to die. I was pretty sure I was going to do it, too. A steady diet of Joy Division, Nine Inch Nails, and no food, I propose, will give anybody enough delusions of grandeur that he believes he could actually be worthy of death. But no person’s really worthy of death, are they? Not until he’s beautiful. Not until he’s dead.

I don’t know why I’m still here. My certainty about death became ambivalence about life. I’ve faded, fallen, decomposed into something less pure, just as I knew I would.

Before I go on, I’d like to inform anyone reading this that I’m not in danger of killing myself, so please don’t worry about me. The only way I feel myself is when I’m dwelling on despair, so, trust me, this is good for me, and I’m not going anywhere soon. I’m not worthy of death.

Almost two years ago, I wrote the following short little punkish story/prose poemy thing.


Billy decided to die one day. For years he had struggled to reconcile his soul with the external world, and on this day he decided those years would be ended. He would finally dive into the abyss of himself and bask in the black repugnant beauty that had been cancerously growing in upon its own emptiness. He would be whole. He would kill and possess himself.

So he walked to the bridge.

However, also on that bridge that day were, independently: Helen, who decided to escape the sorrow of meaning something to no living person; Kevin, whose brother’s deterioration and death had shown him the absolute truth of the meaninglessness of life; and one with no name on whose head a pigeon shit upon earlier that day and in whom the event stirred the realization that there is no difference at all between shit molecules and self molecules, and who then resolved to equate the molecules of existence with those equally valuable molecules of nonexistence.

So as Billy raised himself to the edge of the bridge of infinite truth his hand brushed against Helen’s, and Helen, in her shock, (for she had noticed no neighbor until this accident,) jumped back into Kevin, who bumped into the nameless one, and all four were stunned for a moment into forgetting to finish the action they had all commenced.

You’re going to kill yourself, too? Billy asked the others.

Yes, they all said, and they proceeded to tell one another how it was they had each come to need to destroy themselves in order to create themselves.

At the end of the tales they all had salted, blurring tears in their eyes. For what else could be the product of discovering like minds?

It’s so wonderful, that we all understand that no one understands! We’re together in our aloneness! They all cried. You make me whole!

And then they entered a great orgy, their chemicals feeding off one another and telling them new truths. Filling their voids with the pink of blood and sex.

And they danced together, the four of them, in a pretty, never-ending waltz, feet sweeping and arms waving blurringly fast.

Of course this led to children. And when the day came for them to tell their eldest son how they had met, he turned away with a young person’s scowl and said, So why don’t you just die already! And they all chuckled at that in their wisdom.

They continued their great orgy-dance for many years until the day came when nature killed them. They were all in very old age by then and the blackness of their youth had been bleached by their years of sunny happiness to the faintest gray.

The nature of their dancing-fucking years had filled them with pretty rainbow colors, but on that day she decided to kill them she pulled all that color right out of them. In the moment before they died, they felt the color sucked from them like marrow and stumbled, choked on that instant for the great colorless void within them. They forgot one another, and in the second before death they each remembered the richness of the black that was within them in their youth. But it was just an ungraspable flighty memory and they were erased by nature from the earth.


Lame, yes. I know. Give me a break; my life’s soundtrack at the time was Nirvana’s In Utero.

But at the time of composition, this story was deeply important to me. So what the hell changed?

And don’t tell me I’ve grown up, because that’ll only depress me.

I think this is a great problem for me in social interactions: I don’t want
to hear what people think I want to hear.

Don’t ever tell me I’ve matured.

Don’t ever tell me I’m pretty.

Don’t ever tell me things are going to get better.

Don't ever tell me that Davey Havok doesn't want to kill himself.

Don’t ever tell me it’s a good thing that I’m alive.

Please.

If you’re reading this, the chances are relatively high that you weren’t going to anyways, because you’re you and you’re reading this far in this depressing depress-blog.

Have I rambled enough for the night? I suppose so. I’d like to re-emphasize that I’m not even in a deeply existential or even emo mood right now. I’m not dying any time soon. I’m only writing about these things hoping to find my core again. I seem to be spinning out of control these days, being known by other people, moving in the real world, being infiltrated by alien causes.

I’m still going through my old rough stories I wrote before I devoted all my time to other writings. I guess my aim is to remember where I was emotionally and psychologically when I wrote them, and to relive that experience of writing them by posting them. It’s entirely different, now; back then, I was silent and beautiful, now I’m giving off static. It feels a little like numbness.

More on the times of one year previous next time, mmkay?