02:15 a.m.

Here’s an illusion I’d like to do away with.

It’s hardly ever beautiful. If ever.

It hurts. Like hell.

It takes more from you than any experience of temporary happiness can ever hope to give you.

You run back to it senselessly because it’s the pain you know and anything else burns even more.

So you write.

You keep writing.

And you write some more.

You slip in a happy ending every now and then.

But it’s bullshit.

And you know this.

Once in a while someone will tell you it’s pretty good.

Amazing if you’re average.

But it never really matters. Nothing matters.

Nothing fucking matters.

But being the fool that you are, you keep writing.

Hoping that someday something will change.

But it never will.

And you know this.

________________________________________

Footnotes

I’m generally pretty optimistic, but I go through periods of extreme pessimism from time to time. It’s not that things aren’t going well for me at the time. In fact, sometimes it’s the best days that bring about this feeling of pointlessness to it all. This poem was written towards the end of an almost two year long depression. I was frustrated with how my writing seemed less to release my pain but rather amplify it. My relationship with my emotions is fairly turbulent. My emotions are easily the most underdeveloped part of who I am. I’ve made a ton of progress but the work is definitely still ongoing. I haven’t yet decided if my writing is truly good or bad for me but I have established that it’s something I can’t give up. Maybe I’ll share a little more on the subject.