I literally ran out of Original Shakespeare, though before it started. They were introducing the line reader man. There was applause and I ran out of the theatre and the building. I ran to a nearby tree and crouched at it’s trunk. It is winter, but the cold air caressed me and the sky was bright with light and clouds. I left every break from rehearsal as quickly as possible, and I ate lunch alone. I placed a fork very close to my eye. I stabbed my hand with it a few times. No blood, just poke marks. I scratched myself with my short nails. I pulled out hair in the bathroom. I heard it tear from the scalp, and it hurt, and I kept on pulling. I’ve been thinking about suicide on and off all day. All the past decade, really. I feel like I’m on fire. Here’s what I’ve been journalling throughout the day:
Insanity feels sane, and sanity is a disease, because sanity cannot be trusted. The wild quality of madness, the intense discomfort of every moment is so unbearable, so searingly real, that the calm banality of the balanced every day is so unreliable. It seems to lack humanity. It is unpleasant to be around people. They are boils on my skin and I want to pop them and drink the pus so that I can be content with the knowledge of their absolute destruction within my stomach acid. Laughter is truly perplexing. What the fuck is so funny? I should like to rip out my hair until I am bald, and reduce myself to scar tissue. I should like to be beaten. The sensation of physical impact is delightful. It is not the same as cutting. A hit, a blow, the pulsing sensation. I just want to feel.
I do not want to go to the rest of rehearsal, but I will, because, I am not that far along in my detestation. No, it is not detestation… it is another form of cutting, to remove myself from daily life, cutting of the literal world. Little fork marks on my arm.
Poison, my life has been spent drinking, hearing, spewing poison, fucking in a pool of poison. Lunacy, freedom, I have always desired freedom above all else, but my writing, I want my writing to be read. I could request posthumous publication, no one would neglect my last wishes.
Oh madness, my lover, my drug. I am here in a room of people in this world, and I hate this. I want to throw things, to scare everyone, to scream. I wish I could scream. I’d scream all the time.
There is, however, a part of me that calls to live. I do not understand this part, this part that guides me towards the light. I resent other people sometimes. I resent that I am not as free as them, that I am slave to an invisible demon. I am not the only one, I know this, but somehow, it feels that way,and perhaps, at the moment, their demons are asleep, so they are not as bothered. Madness is selfish, self-indulgent. I don’t want to leave this world, but I want to fuck it up. This world, a sheet of paper. I want to crumple it, and shit on it, and then digest it. And then crumple another sheet, and shit on it, and eat that too. Over and over.
The absence of insanity is what’s truly perverse. The slow deterioration of my well being. I want to disrupt people. Disturb. To shock. To share my profound confusion.
That’s where I’ll leave things for now. Even when sitting with friends, it is perhaps worse. The slight entrances of joy act like vodka on a wound; Ultimately cleansing but it burns a raw burn that makes it all the worse. Happiness can be more saddening than sorrow.
I’ll sleep it off, and make a new day of things tomorrow.