Безіменний

It burns inside.
It still burns and all is left for me is knowing that I want to die, and that I am just unable to off myself.
My life is fucked up and miserable.
My life is a fucking paradise people would have killed for.
I want to smoke, I want to die, I want to return in time, I don't want to return in time, I want to chill for a few years knowing that I have time but time is something I have and something I have not at the same time...
I wasn't in so bad of a mental state even in 2018, or maybe that's just me not remembering. Anyway I am fucked up and miserable.
Screams that never left my throat lacerate my lungs, drifting away in puffs of the cigar smoke.
The smoke that was never there.

I collapse onto the alleyway floor and say wearily, without expression --
Every time when I try to open up, I sense only the hostility and the desire to eradicate what I am. Maybe they love "me" unconditionally, but that is the "me" they think I am... I am tired of people telling me that they love me. Their love, if left unchecked, would destroy me, and that includes getting me deprived of things that are very dear to me, including the limited freedom of communication, movement and, by consequence, thought that I have now.
Believe me, I tried. It's not for the lack of trying. It's not my maximalism.

I can't express things anymore, as the blackness inside eats me alive.

Oh. Exploring the hidden depth on my own self.

I was going to be dependable, I really was. The young dependable guy who just does it, just makes it work, just... Just lives through life.
You know, I was ready to take responsibility, be an adult, make decisions. I did it, in my own right.
The 17-year old me was so much more ready for an adult life than an 18-year old me.
I was like Nike, "just do it" -- not the hesitant silly mess that I was later.
Ah well, it's all just some water under the bridge, and the old stories of an old man nobody cares about, even himself.
I sit here in the uneven LED light, being doubtful and uncool.
The weather is really soft and crying-like and I want to die.

Loneliness.
Not of command, or responsibility, but the sheer inability to talk to someone senior with enough trust.
It is finally getting to me, among my life being in shambles, ongoing professional crisis, and the guilt of not contributing enough to the war effort, and things.
I honestly want to die, to just cease to exist for the first time in years.
To just end it end to hell with the consequences.

I am more privileged than most, but so what?
I remember my last "normal" days in life and I and wish I had made the different choices -- without fully understanding them even now.
But then I realize that along the privilege, I held a curse to my name.
And then I just want to quietly off myself.

Fuck me, <censored>, how do you think, would a young lad that got through years of suffering long desperately for something that would just _end_ it?
Not something that would bring happiness, normality, not something that would make things better -- just _end_ it.
A numbing symptomatic treatment, especially when there's no viable alternative, either it or trying to survive the old way.
When you burn, you don't think about mortgage plans, psychological trauma or career -- you only can think about how to _stop_ burning.

I was on my very last legs those days, I don't rightfully know how much time was left but not a lot.
I was descending into madness long before the cursed 2014.
I just forgot.

What will become of this year?
I think nothing overtly good, we will be lucky if we will get past some really nasty shit like the partial foreshadowing collapse of the Western Civilization as we know it.
I try to escape as hard as I could, not able to do things, not able to change things.
My escape is turned into a curse, and my very unfortunate cold is keeping me at home, not able to see the green island world of so far lingering normality.
I want to get out and escape even more in the simple motions of driving, stillness of the winter gardens and the roar of the ocean at the cliff edge.
Another year a lot of us will be lucky to simply survive.
We made it. Now we suck because of it. Simple.

OK -- last days of December again.
What can I say?

Depressive.
Is it really the end of the second year of the war with no end in sight?
In the island capital city center, where there were the Ukrainian flags last year, now everything is riddled with the palestinian terror-state flags.
Trump is about to get presidency again and destroy the US as we know it, and it's not even Trump who is a problem as the republicans as a whole are choking Ukraine support over domestic issues.
The Western civilization and society, as it looks to me, had lost the will to live, choked down in the multiculturalist tolerance and the sense of guilt. Now, if they don't wake up, they will know the real suffering.

I can't sleep again,
And there is a faint light in the window
Of my personal jail
With a view on the streets
(Sudno)

Flashbacks.
I write here sitting in the Discord voice chat, listening to the lads chattering, and it dawns on me again.
It's 2007, and I'm standing on a pier with the lads, watching them practicing the drown-and-rescue exercise. They are happy and chatty, basking in the rays of the fleeting summer.
Myself, on the other end -- I am not.
I can't fathom what I'm doing among them, although I'm perfectly accepted and valued -- I'm but an alien.
I turn away and stroll towards the City -- not to see most of them ever again.
"My personal jail with a view on the streets"
I've built it.

Left hand is still numb
Left side of the face as well.

I was mowing my lawn, the heartburn felt very sudden, and the numbness followed quickly.
It was on Monday, and now is Wednesday.

Honestly, I'm mulling around letting it play out, after all it's what I want, isn't it?
Or is it?

I can't really pin any role on myself, even that of a self-destructive middle-aged card-carrying moron.
Maybe it's better to let it stop the natural way.

But then I think about those who will regret my passing and I suddenly feel angry and unfulfilled.
That, and not wanting to die just yet.

Silly of me, truly.

I burn down.
Sometimes slowly, sometimes as fast as gasoline fire spreads, leaving only burnt out terrain in its wake, but it's the perennial nature of it that scares me the most.
"Tea, cookies and slow decomposition" -- the keyword was "slow".
It's not slow anymore.
It's fast as if you're riding the waves of your own destruction.

I feel like I'm back somewhere in 2016 but with less time to spare.
I was supposed to be retired quietly, rotting almost alone on an island full of green, not this.

It's the feeling again -- you're surrounded by walls whenever you go, and they are slowly moving towards you.
At some point they are going to crush you.
And I pray that I do'nt hear my own crack.
I do.

I wish it was different.
I wish we could have been whole, I wish I never had those partial information games and the life full of some weird shit.
But it was pre-decided way out there.
I had no chance.
We had no chance.

It's so ironic I really understand it only now that all of the dies are cast.
I have no real purpose, no real meaning, no real life, forever lost in variances of variances of variances &so on..
I'm falling, falling, falling on those sharp rocks under me, trailing smoke from under my shredded wings, and it seems that the fall lasts like forever.
But it does not.
Once I reach the ground level, the landing time will come.
And only time will tell whether I will walk away from it.

I had no chance.
Truly.
I was robbed of many things by the people that I now feel the obligation to support and even somewhat revere.
I truly had no chance, being an outcast, an exile at my core because it's what I was being taught to be.
Decades later, a grown-up version of me reluctantly gives up on the dream of fixing it all.
Decades later, a grown-up version of me is a hermit, living alone in the darkness of painful thoughts.

I am still in a cage made by my own mind, that mimic the teachings of those I hate.
I shiver thinking about the possibilities if only I would have followed them.
When I die I would really like to have a chat with the Devil.
If He would care enough to chat, that is.

It hurts.

Each day is like a creepy nightmare,
I'm ripping off the layers of emptiness,
I'M GOING TO...

The Awakening.
I'm not going anywhere.
And this track is hard to even find today, although it reverberated through crowds of people a decade ago.
As if this timeline is not fully the continuation of the one I lived through.
I would not have been very surprised to learn that it's actually the Gods-honest truth.
The memory of a generation was erased, twofold, without replacement.
We're hollowed-out shells, doing shit of all kinds and forms.

Long ago, when I was young, I didn't think that it would come to this.
Now I cannot fathom the emptiness that it left in us.
As if we were dead already.
Bullshit.

In and out.
In -- and out.
The days got brighter, the music got darker.
I lost myself in more ways than one.
It's like I'm way younger and trying to invent an adult me of the pieces of my childhood that's already past me.
And failing -- so far.
My plans went to shit in more ways than one.
I will curse myself for the rest of my life for the things I did (or rather did not or did less) this year.

I'm back to the state when I want to drink. I want to drink myself to oblivion, just like in 2010 when I had plans to make some money just to live a year in a heroine bliss, and overdose and die when the stuff runs out.
Maybe in the end it would have been much better that what had transpired, Lahesis

Procrastinating, listening to the sad tracks, trying to find myself in the world and all.
I can't.
I am so lost I can't realistically put any role on myself.
Professional crisis that coincides with the personality one, not a black swan or a perfect storm, but a powerful combo nevertheless.
I needed to get out, fucking get out of the weird games I played back while it made sense.
Then I probably would have been dead, but happy.
That's what I always portrayed myself somewhere between 30 and 40 y.o.

I'm not the one that can live in peace with my ghosts. They will come for me, they will humiliate me, they will rip my throat and I will drown in my own blood-- only to wake up again.
And again.
And

Every time I try to stop thinking in russian forever, a little kid appears in my head.
"Please, don't kill me" -- he screams. And I would have ignored him readily, but he makes sense, because that kid is my 1x old self.
A tragic situation, truly, for that lad was not inherently bad or something, he just was there, in the wrong time in the wrong place. I spoke about the necessity to isolate and, if needed, to destroy the russians, but I faltered when my past self pleaded me for mercy.
That's why I always say about the generations needing to die. My generation needs to die off before that particular cancer is defeated.
Truly death is a tragedy to an individual but a huge benefit to societies.

Looky here.
_Those_ people are forever gone.
You would never get that chance, you would never have that conversation, you would never watch that person do the things you so much liked to observe.
It's all gone. They're all different, You're different. Life is a cruel, pitiless, vengeful bitch.
The conservative in me wants to flake stones and make ropes out of animal skins.
The progressivist in me wants to escape to the fucking space and use atomic energy to solve all the human solvable problems.

Meanwhile I procrastinate, and work shitty jobs, and try to forget about things and stave off decisions...
Now I will go to sleep and then I will try to do the boring, necessary stuff I'm so bad at.

I would've chain-smoked one after another, wanting the smoke to take it all away.
I would've drank like a maniac trying to get rid of the faces of those he coldly murdered.

It's past midnight, we're sitting on the granite porch of some building, pretty boozed, relaxed and so fecking young.
I look into your eyes and you look back at me, your eyes the pair of void pistol bores, staring into my soul.
They flash, those eyes, and I'm instantly done for.
We had pretty crazy stories, even then, at those early times before we were twisted and taken away from each other by the implacable forces or fate.
We had it in us, right, Lachesis?
Right?
The smooth rustling of the island wind is my only answer.

A trip down the memory lane to my guilty pleasures.
Slowed down track of a traitor to things dear to me.
In 2006 there were a lot of things that seemed off. Different
We vehemently opposed those things that we later would support

I remember. I remember the weight of the knife on my hip, the heat of the June sun in the mountains, the conference center where we planned our little expedition..
It's all gone now. I would not be like those fat old farts from my childhood that were forever devastated by their world gone forever.
Mine isn't.
It's just changed, it's always, forever changing, and the gardens planted a century ago would not resemble the ones we see today.
Only the gardeners persevere.

Those people didn't mean harm.
Those people did say all the right things, did try to be the right ones in the right places.
They were just so few.
Few are never remembered in history before the many.
They were overpowered by the sheer masse of pure evil, and now they're bitter exiles, like I was once upon a time, and no one sympathizes with them.

Because they said the right things in the evil tongue, and promised the future goodness of the evil race. and they didn't mean harm. but they did it in the end.
Result>intention.

But I still cannot force myself to dislike some of the songs on YT music.
I am part of this cancer myself.
And that's why I want to be alone and away, decomposing quietly.

Fuck the cosmonautics day.
In the end, the Soviet space thought and school was just a dead-end, doomed to become what it had become.
Nuff said.

In the middle of the war, I picked it up.
Trying to understand who I am.
I was in pieces even before the war had started, and I was so much so that I really made a pivot in my life comparable with the ones in 2013 and 2007.
I want to be alone, lads.
I really want the world to forget about my existence, being alone, playing old and new games.
Tea, cookies and slow decomposition -- my motto from 2015 was never so on-point.

But I am caught up in the job I am starting to fucking hate, I am caught up in other things, nothing as sinister as say 2015-2018 but I'm so fucking tired, of it, dear Universe.
I slept for the whole day yesterday, stating a sick leave, and I kinda want more.
Won't get it =(

I tried to compose something but I just cannot, it isn't here in me anymore.
The 1st 9th of April in years I didn't write here about ya.
Maybe I said whatever I could, maybe it's just so long gone I cannot say anything anymore.
Maybe I'm just tired after an eventful day.
At any rate... I'm sorry for everything, c**d.

...that you've read and I know it
I'm sorry, I told them all of it.

I never ever again wrote anything completely honest from my name.
Actually, no, I did -- but only during short moments of not understanding where I was and who I was.
Guilty pleasures taking my mind again.

The best day would never return.
Those days in late May and early June were a bliss. A real bliss, the only time I really knew that for real, I have a chance to be normal. I started to look and feel as if I were normal, albeit a bit mainstream, and, first and foremost, happy.
I only recently realized that I only told about it to one person, and very recently.
After that time I was too far gone.
And now I am but a shadow.