no one gets to come in...

tunes spun and my feet tapped but inside i felt fatalistically alone where i thought delusional happiness would bloom...

is loneliness a choice?
on days like these it feels like a learning curve
a painful transition
as one learns how not to feel...

::

on days like these, with too little sleep to be able to hold up the facade, and nothing close to real human interaction... no honesty, but only fake pretence and shallow exchange... loneliness is sitting by yourself in a bar, walking home with absentminded silent tears blurring down, stepping out into streets without even really looking, letting down one's guard because if someone wants your iPod well fuck it, let em have it, you'll make it easy, body limp, take the beating...

on days like these, loneliness is giving in and giving up...

::

someone says their door is always open.
another offers something like something like prayer.
another says write if you need someone to listen.
another asks for forgiveness.
another offers advice and reminds you who you once were.

with only my own thoughts for company i know there's no point pretending i can dare trust...

::

love doesn't hurt. it is unlove that hurts.
the only way to survive unlove is to stop wanting love in the first place.
to accept aloneness. to no longer care if one is cared for.

humanity is parasitic. how can i dare let anyone come near...?

if i was a fragmented shattered thing before, i am on days like these a hollow shell... in the pieceing back together i dared to stay open and trust... i allowed myself to hope...to believe it was always worth caring and being cared for, even if it meant being vulnerable...

on days like these, i cannot bear the reminding that trust is a risk...and gambling is a fool's game...

i tell myself, i will never believe the lie again...

::

therapy is little more than prostitution. prostitution is perhaps a more honest game.
no one pays a whore expecting anything more than physical connection. it doesn't look like love. doesn't pretend to be something like care.

my whore always asks me, what does it feel like?

on days like these, with despisement dripping, i will reply,

lostness
empty
numb
forgotten
used
abused
exsanguinated
disconnected
discarded
unwanted
unneeded
unnecessary

i am a hollow shell. a ghost. invisible.

roddy doyle said somewhere,
I see people in terms of dialogue and I believe that people are their talk.

on days like these with no dialogue,
no meaningful encounter,
when one might as well be in a silent movie
there is only the promise of the next trick.
i pay so i don't have to trust.
i can hate and hurt...
the whore won't mind.
a vessel for all i have to give -
it's a transaction.
instead of fucking, i talk.
i pretend that how i feel actually matters.
a delusion to bridge the weeks
of loneliness
until my heart has hardened sufficiently...
until i am sure that i have learnt my lesson.
once and for all.

;;

we tell ourselves love is real so that life feels less like existence.
we tell ourselves god exists so that we have someone to fall back on when humanity fails to give us what we want.
we tell ourselves there is a redeemer who will come again so that there is a perpetual promise of something better coming towards us out of the unfolding and always uncertain future.

::

expect nothing
get nothing
give nothing
feel nothing
want nothing
need nothing
hope nothing
love nothing
grieve nothing
regret nothing
be nothing

::

on days like these, in souless bars and empty streets, in disconnected isolation and aloneness,

one realises the greatest lie you have believed
is that you are actually worth something

it would all be so much easier if one could let go of this delusion...

::

watch this living cadaver, disected, opened up...
the fragile thing in peices cannot bear being hurt
and so hardens bit by bit
and the fragmented pieces that still feel hope are
beaten into submission:
stop loving
and you will
stop hurting

::

this is what days like these feel like.

after some sleep i will wake to another day. perhaps another like this. or perhaps i'll have enough energy for pretending i don't hurt... the mask will go back up and my shell will be a little stronger... i'll pick up my feet and move on...

but a fragile hurting (brave?) piece of me will perhaps grieve today... because a little more of me got lost in the battle with mistrust...

LB, x