This, of Many, Lonely Days

This, of Many, Lonely Days

Some distant time ago.
There was something tangible.

We forget our lives when they were filled with newness.
Many have children.
Many have god.
Some give up.

I gave up. I forgot how to try.
I failed drastically in the only thing that really matters.
And I’m ok with that. Truly.
But goddamn it’s fucking lonely.

Jacking off can’t cure such an aliment. No touching of self is the touch of another. It’s just pain. And an underlying nothingness that consumes all but cannot have an inkling of show. Not even a friend to talk to, wouldn’t know how to talk if a friend presented.

It’s just pain.

The depression of knowing it could never happen. The very deep hole. The active numb of knowing nothingness. After knowing so much.

Something to get away, some drug. But that only ever takes you to another way to live the misery. No answer. No way.

But it’s just pain. You’d never know talking to me. A shadow I try to hide. We all have our pain. I could justify mine with claims of upbringing or girlfriends or society. But who’s to say I’m worse off? Not me, at all. No excuses here. It’s just pain, the misalignment of neurons in my brain. Senseless pain.

It is me who is broke to me, and never getting better.