I keep thinking about before
About the before that was good
But mostly about the before that was bad.
I keep thinking that it’s become a part of me
That the bad has morphed and taken a hold
That I am no longer me, merely the bad, a tangle of pain
I keep thinking that it doesn’t matter
That nothing matters, the geniuses of the world are nihilists
As we are all matter, that’s the only matter we get
I keep thinking we should be more than that
Or should we? We can’t be more than we are.
We are just we. Or I. Or you. Or her. Or him. Or they.
I keep thinking of the end
Not the end of me, or even of you. Just the end.
The end when we’re supposed to understand, but
I keep thinking we’ll never know
We live lives that have no meaning
So we force meaning into it. Onto one another.
I keep thinking about freedom.
About liberty. About things I’ll never understand.
About things no one will ever understand.
I keep thinking I want to understand
But I know I never will.
It’s beyond my capacity. Maybe it’s beyond everyone’s capacity.
I keep thinking of going back to school.
Will that help me to understand?
Will that provide meaning?
I keep thinking that’s a stupid idea.
That the world is built upon stupid ideas
That we are a stupid idea
I keep thinking I’m wrong.
Wrong to despair. No.
Despair is my glue.
I keep thinking without that glue I’ll fall apart
Maybe we’re all glued together like Frankenstein’s
monsters with despair and loneliness
I keep thinking I should keep my mouth shut
No one wants to hear the ramblings of a lunatic
No one needs to hear the sadness seeping out.
I keep thinking I’m wrong.
No.
I keep knowing I’m wrong.
I know I’m wrong.
Even if we force meaning by making it,
Does that make it less meaningful? No.
Book Slut 