The Helpless Longing To Purge
Keats was a delusional fool. Nothing, nothing can be so nauseatingly ugly as truth. Truth on display, truth reflecting back at you in the mirror, everywhere you turn, or clinging to the tips of your realities like pine sap, collecting the dust and dirt of your life, making everything rough and gritty and sticky to the touch.
Truth is a soul even more flawed and empty than the body that clings to it, more out of habit than anything else, as if it might be worth something someday to someone somewhere. Truth is the acrid, musky stench of knowing the limits of your strongest reach, and truth is your own bitter laughter at how pathetically short it falls from even your lowest expectations.
Truth is life, and life is a K-Mart commercial. Good fucking lord, when did this happen? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Is this really how bad things have become?
What I wouldn’t do for the pureness of loathing right now, instead of the overwhelming hangover of realization swimming in my mind, as the dull press of a weight, as the disorientating slap to the face. The only thing that can save me now is sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub. To dream the dreams of poets, who know nothing but sleep. The hard part is always waking up.
Truth is a soul even more flawed and empty than the body that clings to it, more out of habit than anything else, as if it might be worth something someday to someone somewhere. Truth is the acrid, musky stench of knowing the limits of your strongest reach, and truth is your own bitter laughter at how pathetically short it falls from even your lowest expectations.
Truth is life, and life is a K-Mart commercial. Good fucking lord, when did this happen? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Is this really how bad things have become?
What I wouldn’t do for the pureness of loathing right now, instead of the overwhelming hangover of realization swimming in my mind, as the dull press of a weight, as the disorientating slap to the face. The only thing that can save me now is sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub. To dream the dreams of poets, who know nothing but sleep. The hard part is always waking up.