The Light Ebbing

Sometimes I wonder if you have any idea– no, if you care of what you are doing to me.

“Why ask useless questions? How deep is the ocean? How high is the sky? Who is John Galt?”

Betterment and Degeneracy

Is it worse to feel sad or to be fake? I have irrefutable proof that that the sole purpose of life is suffering (and the noble kind at that), and it comes forth in deeply troubling experience. Generally, this happens just when you least need it to; my grandmother used to say bad news came in threes (actually she didn’t, but anecdotes are easier to swallow). When so much is wrong, what’s left to do but to examine and make yourself feel worse?

It only takes so many times of someone calling you a racist to make you feel like one. It only takes one frown to make someone what they did to deserve that in the grocery store. One reprimand in a sharp voice is enough for anyone to personalize and internalize that idea until it is morphed into a brutish monster. Walking away once is enough to make me feel like I don’t really want to know you anymore.

When I feel my lowest, my happiest times come. I like to buy expensive computers to compensate for the feelings; Apple is rich because of bad news. Many men have died in car wrecks in the rain because they were crying and too much of a man to stop the car to finish up the internal struggle. On rare occasions, a glimmer of good news comes to raise my hopes, only to dash them away. What could be more effective than raising the bar a bit right before it plummets? I am pissed off that you can go to lunch, speak, and depend on me (and my credit card) at all points it’s convenient for you, and bypass any feeling at all when you’re supposed to talk it through with me. I’m sick of you getting upset for no reason. I’m tired of you being a poor person, for fucking everything that moves, and for leaving me alone. I hate people of color. Is that what you wanted? It’s strange, I’ve never said that before, and I don’t mean it now.

It only takes so long before habit sets in. It’s not my culture that has done this to me, it’s me. I’m a bigot, a poor friend, and hell, I probably smell bad. I only really wish that I had never met you before, but it won’t matter, because tomorrow I’ll do what I do best: I’ll pretend. You’re so transparent. So please, go cry to your mother; I’ll spite you, and I did tonight. You’re fake. I’m real.

Dona Eis Requiem

Dies iræ! dies illa
Solvet sæclum in favilla
Teste David cum Sibylla!

Quantus tremor est futurus,
quando judex est venturus,
cuncta stricte discussurus!

Lacrimosa dies illa,
qua resurget ex favilla
judicandus homo reus.
Huic ergo parce, Deus:

Pie Jesu Domine,
dona eis requiem. Amen.