In my nicotein-deprived frenzy I notice them for the first time it seems-riding their bicycles on the sidewalk, walking with back packs, begging for change outside the circle K, walking pregnant and downcast down the street near planned parenthood, carrying groceries, sweeping the porch, wandering aimlessly the streets of this town...they seem cardboard to me, they seem tasteless like library paste.

What are they thinking about? Some of them seem so happy. They seem lit by an internal glow, holding hands, making kisses, laughing into the cel phone, staring at the newspaper or magazine at the tables outside the coofeeshop. Some of them are downcast, looking at feet, but not with any depth or meaning, maybe just sad because of a missed bus, a bad day of begging, no luck at the scratch-off lottery tickets, dumped, but only momentarily defeated by a minor twist of fate.

They have no grand disillusion with the world. There is nothing off-key about the hue of their world. It is red yellow blue crayon straight from the box. No existential anguish on their faces. No doubt of the permanency of their life and vital instincts. They will always want to fuck, always want to win, always want to be alive and eat and drink and smoke and walk and ride their bicycles on the sidewalk. No doubt that the wiorld as they know it is worth saving, and especially no doubt that they are worthy of living in it.

I think I am going crazy. I have these dark moments when I see these people. A stick in their spokes. A rock to their heads. A flash in the corner of their eyes, death running up fast in a white robe and BANG they would feel it too.
Though I shouldn't wish my misery on others. It wouldn't lighten my load. I would not feel any more alive if everyone else was dead inside. I wouldn't feel good if everyone else felt bad-I would feel and be the same. It would only be an improvement in comparison to them. I cannot compare myself to them.

Subnormals laughing, drinking, flirting, insane wild-eyed sluts with their self-love wrapped up in how many men look at them. How many dates they have. How nice their hair looks. How many times they check in the mirror to see if their makeup is perfect. Fuck them I smell the rot on them. This beauty is transient. This beauty is transient. This beauty is transient.
Transitory.

The worms will eat a beautiful face with as much relish as an ugly angry one.
Why do I have to hate them? Why do I have these black flashes of despair? Don't they have them too? don't they ever grind their teeth in their sleep and seethe? Don't they ever hate those who have hurt them, daydream of revenge, love, passion, spite, death, borth, killing? Don't they ever see roadkill and giggle? How can I call them alive? I used to think there was something missing in me, that my dark moods and thoughts came from an empty place inside me. I think maybe that it is full. That I have something they do not.

Maybe I'm just flattering myself. Trying to feel superior to the simpering morons in heels and jeans that caper around the streets of every city.

Maybe I am one too-in my tattoos and bras and eyeliner. I am one too. I have lost my mind as well. I am like them. I wish I had the empty hole they call a soul. If I had that gap like they do maybe I could smile and fuck and giggle and simper....maybe I could be happy.

Maybe I wouldn't want love or meaning or depth and maybe I wouldn't miss love and meaning and depth when it's gone.

Maybe I woulnd't take losses so badly.

Maybe I would love myself and be fine with just that, and sit just with that and flick my hair back and do my makeup and be pretty and ignore the worms and the dissolution of all beauty.
Maybe I would have anniversaries to celebrate.


I hate them. I envy their shallow hearts and I wish mine was less intense.
They say ignorance is bliss and they are right, from all appearances they are right. These people are happy. I am not.