Tabula Rasa

 

I’m sitting here thinking I should cut my wrists.

That’s the bulk of the actual thoughts in my head today. I should just do it. I should just get that razor blade. And slice. Watch the pretty blood splash out and just…go into the darkness. Just go. Just go. What a relief to have it all over. What a relief. Nietzsche was right about how comforting the notion of suicide is. You don’t have to keep living in misery. You don’t have to keep working so hard to come up with reasons to keep on living. For what? For what? I can’t think of anything.

“The thought of suicide is a great consolation: by means of it one gets through many a dark night.” Friedrich Nietzsche

And it’s such a lovely day outside. Full of sunshine and birds building nests. The thaw of the harsh winter. The greening of the world. That coming of spring like a fresh coat of paint. The flowering of the trees, the unfurling of leaves, the whole fucking kit and kaboodle bullshit fuckery another year another year another year

And I am wondering how long. Before I give in. To that compulsion to slice at my wrists or drink a bottle of pills. Old boring stuff, yes. This is not a tale of overcoming. Mine is not a tale for that movie about overcoming the odds or beating back against some suffering and triumphing. I won’t triumph over this. It will beat me. I’m just waiting for that signal. To cut. To cut. To cut so deep I can’t uncut.

And I realize I’m not supposed to speak of such things, the actual thoughts in my head. I must manufacture something sweet. To not reveal the giant dead landscape I walk so much now, in my head my head my dying foggy head. Where no gentle green land appears. Where no boats bob on misty waters to bear me away. Where no skies open above me that go on and on into some gentle night. Where I am utterly alone choking on the dust of my own footsteps. Where my feet don’t leave a mark anywhere and yet the dust chokes me it chokes me. And someone far away tells me to stop choking, to be quiet, someone indifferent. Stop choking, shhh. You’re so loud. Your voice hurts my head. So I am quiet and it’s I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you. You’re so loud. I can’t hear a goddamn word you fucking say. Why are you this way? What’s the matter with you? And I have no words left, I have no words left

I know why Plath put her head in that oven
Why Woolf drowned herself
Why Sexton drank in carbon minoxide

To not do so was just too fucking intolerable

 

I meant this to be somewhat elegant and beautifully written. It’s a raw blitz of bland dough. I probably won’t ‘share’ this because it will re-enforce that awful savage notion that I am not valuable to anyone, that people read my least feeble raw little scribble and shrug, forgetting me before they know me.

And all I can do today is not cut. Listen to birds outside my dead world. Listen to them fighting for territory in the vast wilderness of the lawns. Listen to those determined bird battle cries that declare another year, another nest, bitches! And the coming of eggs and the coming maws of little mouths and fuzzy babies and tragedies when the magpies descend.

 

And the day slinks onward toward twilight and dark and the moon and owls and coyotes and perhaps some sort of rest. Where some alchemy takes place that turns me into a tabula rasa. And I don’t have to remember anything I am a blank thing with no writing on my clean inner walls no scars or pits or canyons full of knives and blood and little dreams that died and died and died and kept dying dying dying kept screaming as they died

no little dreams at all

 

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