embodied

The words meant nothing. Believe me, I wish they didn’t, because words were all I had. At least this has been my thinking, if thinking is what it was. Everybody has a part to play. Everyone is needed in some damn way. At least that’s how the story goes. All I had were stories. The specialness that oddness imbues, the value that makes all the suffering something.  Take the words off of the page, snatch them from my tongue. Put them in a paper bag, shake them up good. Pick them out in one and twos, place them at random. You’ll do as well as I do, and without all the bother and baggage. You’ll likely beat me when it comes to audience and accolades. I’ve never been much good at anything except being shown how little I matter. I’ve never had much of a purpose save getting shown the door. 

I don’t so much suspend disbelief as miss reality all together. I get caught up in some thrill, some notion that is three steps removed from what I have seen or am told, and my imagination runs wild. Even when I don’t believe in the fancy it captures me still, single minded mishap that I am. So I only hear the parts I want to, so I only work with the pieces that fit the plot. Since I was a child I have been hard headed and wrong. My whole life has been as series of misunderstandings due to not listening clearly, especially not listening to the things left unsaid. The time has come to give up my last conceits, to settle into my last days of exploitation and diabetes. No love, no art, no name. Just a juggler working the same old props. Just failure embodied in a fool.

I’m tired of being ignored. I’m tired of squandering my shitty life for people that don’t want me around. Time and time again I end up lost and used up. I am worse off now than I have been in ages, my health, my self, my heart all at an all time low. I quit Twitter to jump off that wheel, one less place to be disparaged and mocked. I get enough of that in the house I am allowed to reside in. I’ll keep posting here for at least a while, but I am only really motivated to write for readers, and I have so few and expect fewer as my writing continues to lack panache or relevance. And really I mostly wrote for one person, who no longer reads me, and who gives so few fucks it’s embarrassing that it still guts me that they don’t. The crazy gets worse, and nothing else is getting any better. So I’ll keep plugging along until I don’t. My worthlessness knows no limits.