Warning: Talk of death and suicide, and the futility of life. Actually...that's what the whole damn post is about. It's the weekend!
I am tired and this is the weekend, ergo this is bound not to be pleasant.
But.
I will tell you something I need to get off my chest.
I cannot wait to get out of my teen angst stage. I refuse to believe I will be a depressed individual for the rest of my life. I've changed and I will change again.
And yet the more things change the more they stay the same.
I'm not sure how to put this other than I'm tired of being fed up with the world around me and myself. I'm tired of seeing others as untrustworthy. I don't want to hate. I don't want to drown in self pity. I don't want to die.
Let me tell you about death. I had a kooky dream Thursday night/morning no doubt brought on by the fact that I had voraciously consumed not one, not two, but FIVE PACKS OF M&Ms.
The dream was this. I was the Angel of Death. Aaand I killed Mark Sandman. In his sleep. Umm.
I helped him write a song, a couple that appeared on Morphine's final album, the Night (I remember one being "The Way We Met", dunno the other). It was a fairly lucid dream because at the end I remember telling myself, "wait, he didn't die in his sleep, he died on stage!"
Anyway, the dream, I was helping Mark write awesome tunes and while we were talking at some point he asked me if I was tired. I don't remember my response, but then he began taking on a little sickly and I ordered him to bed. I tucked him in (coz I like doing that) and we spoke again...I ended the dream by saying, "The next time I see you it'll be for that final sleep."
"...Damn," I thought upon waking. "The fuck was that."
That was a dream. I don't put much stock in chocolate-induced dreams pretty much for that reason, because I am neither the Angel of Death and nor do I wish any harm on musicians that are already dead.
But like all good Morbid Folks (which is going to be the name of my shoe line I swear) death enters my mind a deal. Being an atheist...or better yet, just being me for some reason I often encounter the question of just what happens after death, I'm so smart. My usual answer is "Just that" or "What the fuck you think happens?!"
I think about it. It's a useless question really, I don't care what happens after death, I'll be fucking dead. I used to be awful determined to find out just that though, either that or prove my immortality to the world, being a former teenage Weekend Para Suicider. That is to say, I used to cut. A lot. First in attempt to kill myself (then there was that one time I drank rubbing alcohol, pills, etc...) then, honestly, for the hell of it. It felt nice compared to everything else.
/soul baring
I stopped suicide after I realized, I was deathly afraid of dying. I didn't want to really leave the earth because I didn't know what would happen next, atheism or not. Not because I might be wrong and end up in that ol' Lake of Fire with the Old Man, not even worrying about my family and...uh, acquaintances, but just because I wouldn't be LIVING anymore. I'd be dead. Deceased. No more. I'd be an ex-Xands. But overtime I lost my fear of death and haven't really regained it.
What drove me nuts about our little shooting incident in January is just how close I had seriously come to dying. If I'd gone and taken a nap I'd have a bullet lodged somewhere in my abdomen. I thought perhaps it was just adrenaline taking over and I was in Co-Ops Mode or something, but days after the fact I realized...I didn't care at all. Perhaps it's just my fatalistic outlook that tells me, well if I had died that would have been it, but I didn't so oh well. Then I had to laugh at the irony that I'd nearly got what I wanted about 5 years ago, and all I had to do was go on the couch for that final sleep. Death is beautiful in it's simplicity, isn't it? Murder. Those men will never get caught you know, fact.
So yes, I am tired, Mr Sandman, I get tired a lot. I am the Angel of Death and sometimes I wish I could crawl into my own tomb.
DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
