【Irreversible】

Day 4
30/5/2017

     It fell apart so quickly, my perspective of the self. I’m no more than an anthology of repetition, not straying from my lane. No risks no consequences, I’ve failed to tell the story of an individual, let alone remember how to live. Freedom stripped itself from my thought as I settled down with nothing, no one, dreamless and alone—never considering an alternative, far more enjoyable existence until it was far too late for things to change.

     Thirty days to break a habit, dozens more to change a lifestyle—is there a facility where I might be placed, somewhere I might learn to take participate in risky, unsafe behaviours and express disregard for my health and safety. Meticulous natures have come to dominate whatever remains of personality and soul—a husk of a man mimicking the ideal of living without issue or problem, though this misguided utopia is a misnomer in itself, leading solely to a perpetual self-digging hole.

     I struggle to pinpoint where it began, where I threw away everything I loved, everything I could fail, each task placed outside the realm of absolute familiarity and comfort. Blame the depression, the faltering interest as energy and positive thoughts drained from every cell of the person I had been, spending hours staring at ceilings as opposed to picking up needle and thread, or the controller to fantasies anticipated and long desired. I lost interest in what there could be, realities where happiness lay, adventure and friendship burned in an act of malice against myself and what future I could scrape together from a meagre present.

     So many times, I’ve sat distraught in self-awareness of my irreversible downwards spiral, the consequences of failing to yell for a ladder prior to digging to deep. Thus, I have burrowed into the heat of the earth, to the core of illness where all might be set ablaze through that intolerable molten, malleable iron. It’s not possible to recover what’s lost, no absolute remedy nor gradual fix bound to reverse the damages of natural disasters in full—a damaged good that has accepted its right to never be appreciated by the consumers of any market of individuals.

     Tomorrow I’ll forget. I’ll lose the consideration of another plane of existence all together, wallowing in my swallowing asthenia, vored by nihilistic ideation and sedation alike. Self-awareness a temporary curse, stressful—ignorance to the self if bliss, even if the alternative is retaining the acknowledged suffering, and failing to worry about the everlasting repercussions of reducing the mind and life to the barebones.

     I settled. I won’t be happy, having burned by interior, leaving only a cold, mould-copied husk of what once was, abolishing what growth could have been.