there ain’t privacy no more

I can’t think. Or maybe I think too much. It’s a stream of incessant thinking that is slowly driving me to the depths of depression. Here, right now, time feels like an eternity. Or timeless. A complete fountain of paradoxes, that you know not the difference between the two, because two extreme poles they seem to converge at one point.

Call it madness. Call it whatever the fuck you want. I know when I’m being extremely touchy that I loathe every single fucking encounter with any human being that I crave that moment where I can finally disappear, away from everyone else, at least from everyone I know. I can anticipate when these bouts of extreme existentialism comes. I don’t know what that means anymore. I don’t wanna know. It sounds good though, right now.

Maybe I need a quick fix, maybe I aught to go and really admit that I am that sad and morose and all that negativity, instead of just blaming it on the lack of enthusiasm/response I give due to boredom of everything else. Maybe they’ll do me wonders, maybe they really patch things up, maybe they’ll give you a sense of well being, even for a minute or two.

Every single fucking day you feel as if you’re sucked into this world not your own, being forced doing things you do not want to submit to in the first, yet you tell to yourself; yes I can still stand all of this shite, when you know you’re gonna break down sooner or later. Maybe not today, maybe not next week, maybe not in this fucking year, maybe… I don’t know. You sit down and say, I am I am I am.

It fucked up, I tell ya, when you show up at people’s door without any apparent reason, not knowing what to do, or say, or react. It’s not as if you need ’em, it’s not that they’d ever understand you, even if they proclaim they read you like a fucking book, because humans never really understand other humans. They just assume they do, and they understand people in their own understanding, making wild assumptions and jumping to erroneous conclusions it’s fucking hilarious.

You want to be away from other people, to get away from a place, yet you know you fucking can’t because you can’t gather enough will to get out of ye own bed, so you’re stuck in that one place, until somebody creeps in, and fucking talks to you like you’re a goddam piece of delicate vegetable that needs saving. Well I don’t need saving. Not from people like you, anyway.

You ask me to define people like you, because you are grossly offended, or perhaps a wee bit curious of how my mind works. You’d want my bit of gems, preaching me, obsessing over me, like I’m some fucking goddess when I’m really this fucked up piece of shit. Ye ask if I believed in the almighty, if I had anyone I love, if I still remember whatever I say to you, ye keep asking me like I’m some fucking answering machine.

Oh fine I’ll tell you then, when I feel all too amused by a situation as such. People like you, are just mostly everybody else. I could elaborate for hours on that but sorry, mate, I’ m just not inta it anymore. Or more accurately, I’m just not into you, or what you’re trying to do. I’m just bothered by your presence, like a fly in the market, like a flea in the marketplace, just like what dear old Nietzsche (but you call him knee-shaw) described in his book.

Alas, you call me delusional, telling me that I live in my own world, , conjuring up false tales about you and other people, that I am delirious and henceforth declare me unhealthy. If so then stop bothering me, I don’t need you nor your nasty diagnosis, your declaration of love, your words of comfort, your preachy voice, and whatever else you want to present. All I can say is fuck off and be rid of my sight.

Just leave me alone, because I am better off that way.

And you may start to wonder, what the heck happened to me.