In the Middle of the Night In A Dark House Somewhere In the World

The other day I was in the city sitting on a bench waiting for someone when I had what addicts refer to as a "moment of clarity." The streets were lined with morose faces, strange, distant and unreal. I suddenly became cold and frightened, everything seemed so overwhelming, I can't remember ever feeling so brutally alienated. Who needs a tomorrow anyway? I wanted to go to the woods I played in as a child, to see the trees one last time, to hug them, tell them "thank you" and "goodbye." I wanted to tear open my wrists and pour my warm blood onto the leaves, into the soil, into the roots until I finally collapsed to the ground, my smiling face stained with blood and tears, gradually yielding to the azure twilight. Hasn't anyone told you that exsanguination is the new vogue? I was wondering what my last thoughts would be when my phone rang. The person I was meeting wasn't able to make it. I slowly stood and walked away.

That probably doesn't make much sense to most of you, not that I give a shit. You see, it's one thing to lose hope in humanity, quite another to lose hope in happy endings. It's easy to blame the modern world for our feelings of despair and anomie, to point fingers at the latent desperation for context and the urgent need to feel something amidst an absence of meaning in the synthetic, desensitized realm of "post-modern" pseudo-existence. But I know it's more internalized than that. And it lingers like a haunting refrain. Whether with the love of your life, on a city bench, buying groceries at the store, or alone in a dark house somewhere in the world, it's always there. Kill yourself slowly with a TV remote and a beer or in one fell swoop, whichever is more your style.