I should have told you

I should have told you, it would be back again. This feeling of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. This feeling of emptiness, of shallowness, of an absence of meaning. I look around and there is no meaning. There is nothing I can claim to be of any importance to me, it’s just nonexistent. All is regret and sadness, all I’ve done is meaningless, all my writing and my painting and my drawing, they are just hollow cavities in my brain, black holes of numbness and colorless odorless soundless tasteless nothingness. Me and my body and my past.

My past is trying to kill me. I know that. It is coming in waves, haunting me like a haunted miserable edifice in the desert of a comatose city lying in the gray throes of death. Memories of failures and acts of cowardice and lack of reason, sickness, and malady brought about by weakness and stolidity. Just searching for a reason, something to cling to…for keeping me from falling into dark insanity. Sometimes I think of you, like now. Now that I’m thinking of trying to see you again, somewhere in the city, maybe around the corner of that tall decrepit building where I used to live a long time ago.

But on the other hand, I have this feeling that it might be wrong, this yearning for you, for something in your eyes. What is it that I’m looking for? Is it an addiction, another addiction to nurture and feed like cancer growth in a rotten cavity?

We used to merge on the sixth. But I never used to have plans.

One thing I can tell you: I hate seasons.

I hate the celebrations of time passing maybe because it reminds me that death is approaching.

So no seasons, no weeks, no months, no weekdays, no Sundays and Saturdays, no holidays. Just give me peace and freedom. There it is, the space-time continuum through which I’m wandering, a sleepwalker on a rope high above between the burning skyscrapers.