Fuck You

All of you.

All your fear.

I lie, inasmuch as I don’t know the truth.  Inasmuch as everything I say is some dialogue of script I’ve written moments before, seconds before, split microframes of life before speaking it.  And I mean it.  At the time.  But it all fades.  Truth is ephemeral.  It’s a whisper misheard and repeated with mutations and twisted with prerogatives and turned into hateful resentment.

I’m drinking now, and I’m posting publicly.  Now, I know this is the wrong thing to do.  I know this is what caused some … some person to … to cause me to be committed to a mental hospital.

But I won’t stop.  I can’t stop.  We can’t stop.  None of us.

Just say it.  Do it.  Act what you feel.

What’s more true than the words and motions queuing up in your frontal lobes, waiting to be spilled upon the world?  If they don’t understand, fine.  If they don’t understand and don’t try, it’s a pity.  If they don’t understand and don’t care, then fuck them all to Hell.

Years ago.

What if she’d been honest?  What if, instead of skirting around her real feelings, hiding behind some ludicrous fear, what if she’d told me how she felt?  Because, honestly, and truly, I had no fucking idea.  I didn’t know.  I couldn’t understand.  She’d try to explain, sometimes, and I’d listen, intently, trying — but it was all gibberish.  We were speaking different languages.

There’s only one language we all understand, and that’s the rage and tears that spill from an honest heart.

Fuck you all and fuck God.  What kind of world is this, where we can’t communicate?  Babel was never dismantled.  It was never finished as a vain, clever gedankenexperiment by a smug watchmaker of a God.  It persists, and none of us can relate to each other.  Our fears, our pain.  They can’t be quantified or qualified.  They’re boolean values.

We are afraid and we hurt.

And instead of trying to fix it?  We go on to someone else.  We think they’re different.  We think they understand us.  But they’re the same beneath a different shade of paint.  We’ll get tired of them.  We’ll find some flaw.  We’ll hate them as much as we hate the man we left, or the woman we left — the person we couldn’t stand to even try to be with anymore.

Some goddamned cunt looked me in the eye over her bifocals at CPEP and said she had never considered suicide.  Never.  Never in her life had she just wanted to turn it all off.  Deluded, or a fucking willful liar.  She must have been a doctor, a doctor of the mind, a mesmeristic witch pretending to know how people tick.  Had she never looked at herself?  How can she even be real?  Just another slug sliming her way across the illusory manicured lawns of this putrid Earth?

Is someone going to call the police?  Is someone going to say this poor man needs help?  That he’s in a crisis?  That he’s a bad father?  That he doesn’t deserve to live but he wants to die so you should put him in a cage?

Fuck you all.

Every Christ-fucking one of you.